PAY  ENVELOPES 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  JAMES  OPPENHEIM 

WILD  OATS  (A  novel} 

DR.  RAST  (Short  stories) 

MONDAY  MORNING  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

THE  PIONEERS  (A  poetic  drama) 


"  He  was  thinking  of  death.      Face  to  face  with  it,   he  was  going 
through  a  Hamlet-soliloquy  in  terms  of  an  American  workman  " 


.PAY    ENVELOPES 

TALES  OF  THE   MILL,  THE  MINE 
AND  THE  CITY  STREET 


BY 

JAMES    OPPENHEIM 

//  y\A 

- 


Illustrated    by 
HARRY  TOWNSEND 


NEW  YORK 

B.   W.   HUEBSCH 

191 1 


Copyright,  IQII 
BY  B    W.  HUEBSCH 


PRINTED  IN  U.   S.   A. 


TO 
FRANK  A.  MANNY 


TROUBLES  OF  THE  WORKSHOP 


TROUBLES   OF   THE    WORKSHOP 

(A  skippable  preface) 

A  manufacturer  of  steel  does  not  wake  up  every 
morning  to  wrestle  with  the  question :  "  What  is 
Steel?  "  He  knows  that  by  putting  iron  through 
a  process  of  fire  he  gets  a  tough  product  usable  as 
rails,  as  armor  or  as  girders.  If  a  rail  is  more 
malleable  than  armor  he  does  not  ask  himself :  "  Is 
the  rail  steel  or  is  the  armor  steel?"  For  him, 
they  are  both  steel. 

But  the  poor  toiler  in  the  workshop  of  Litera 
ture  or  Painting  or  Music  must  daily  ask  himself: 
"  What  is  Art?"  And  his  critics  will  constantly 
tell  him  that,  for  instance,  his  job  of  last  week  was 
Art  but  his  new  bit  of  work  isn't  Art  at  all.  Or 
he  will  be  told  (and  he  himself  will  be  suspicious 
of  the  truth)  that  he  never  has,  never  will,  never 
can  create  a  work  of  Art. 

Well,  what  is  Art?  When  Wagner  first  re 
leased  on  humanity  a  riot  of  strange  sound,  he  was 
hissed  and  howled  at.  This,  said  the  critics,  is 
not  music.  But  Wagner  and  his  disciples  kept 
telling  the  world  that  it  was  music  and  it  is  a  fact 
in  psychology  that  a  statement  repeated  over  and 
over  comes  to  be  believed  —  a  truth  on  which  mod- 


THE  WORKSHOP 

ern  advertising  has  arisen.  As  a  result  we  go  to 
Wagner  expecting  music  and  of  course  we  find 
music.  That  is  to  say,  we  are  stirred  pleasurably 
by  the  same  sounds  that  grated  on  the  ears  of  our 
ancestors.  Art  then  is  a  matter  of  taste;  a  per 
sonal  matter;  each  man  for  himself.  Get  enough 
people  to  agree  in  their  taste  and  a  certain  Art- 
form  will  become  dominant  in  any  age. 

Now  there  are  certain  root-elements  in  human 
nature  which  have  not  greatly  changed  in  the  last 
few  thousand  years.  As  a  result,  though  art- 
forms  may  vary  greatly  from  age  to  age  there 
are,  at  least  two  things  demanded  of  every  artist. 
First,  that  he  be  a  skilled  worker,  and  second,  that 
he  be  sincere.  Before  we  will  accept  his  new  form 
he  must  show  mastery  in  handling  his  materials  and 
must  pour  into  the  form  real  thinking  or  real  emo 
tion  or  both.  Even  then  his  product  may  not  hit 
the  taste  of  more  than  two  people :  himself  and  his 
wife  or  his  mother.  In  which  case  the  rest  of  us 
will  cheerfully  tell  him  that  he  is  no  Artist.  One 
critic  will  say:  his  English  is  bad;  a  second,  his 
characters  are  not  human  beings ;  a  third,  he  is  sor 
did;  a  fourth,  he  is  preaching  a  sermon. 

In  a  larger  way  there  is  this  same  confusion  of 
criticism.  Take  this  matter  of  the  problem  play, 
the  problem  novel  or  story  —  as,  for  instance,  a 
story  dealing  with  Prison-Reform  or  Socialism. 
There  is  still  a  host  of  critics  —  both  professional 
and  lay  —  who  tell  us  sharply  that  Art  must  steer 


TROUBLES  OF  THE  WORKSHOP     n 

clear  of  "  problems  "  —  must  merely  "  reflect 
life."  And  if  we  ask  how,  they  say,  "  As  Shake 
speare  did,"  or,  "  As  Sir  Walter  Scott  did." 

The  bewildered  writer  in  his  workshop  goes  to 
Shakespeare  and  here  are  some  of  his  findings. 
Shakespeare,  like  most  artists,  expressed  the  domi 
nant  interest  of  his  age.  In  what  were  the  Lon 
doners  chiefly  interested?  In  the  life  of  the  court 
and  the  life  of  war.  Hence,  in  "  Hamlet "  we 
have  a  Prince  struggling  between  his  desire  for 
personal  revenge  and  his  duty  to  the  State;  in 
"  Macbeth,"  the  struggle  of  an  Earl  ambitious  to 
be  King  and  tyrant;  in  "Othello,"  the  downfall 
of  a  war  leader  through  jealousy;  in  "As  You 
Like  It,"  a  comedy  of  court  intrigues. 

Our  interests  have  widened.  In  a  democracy 
the  court  —  supposedly  —  is  any  tenement  on 
Rivington  Street,  and  war  is  not  merely  wholesale 
murder  between  flag-led  hosts,  but  also  the  infi 
nitely  more  complex  struggles  of  Peace  —  the  mur 
der  of  men  through  twelve-hour  days,  child  labor 
and  unprotected  machinery;  the  struggle  between 
labor  and  capital;  the  fights  for  sanitation.  Our 
newspapers  are  the  readiest  expressions  of  the  in 
terests  of  the  age.  Are  they  not  full  of  every  type 
of  human  struggle?  Divorce,  the  tariff,  mur 
der,  immigration,  embezzlement,  anti-vivisection, 
woman's  beauty,  the  search  for  the  North  Pole, 
the  death  of  a  child,  the  discovery  of  a  scientist  — 
all  these  varied  interests  are  .served  side  by  side. 


12     TROUBLES  OF  THE  WORKSHOP 

So,  following  in  Shakespeare's  path,  the  American 
writer  finds  spread  before  him  in  this  age  a  stag 
gering  material:  no  less  than  the  lives  of  ninety 
million  mixed  people,  a  dozen  nations  in  process 
of  being  socialized  on  American  soil. 

But  how  did  Shakespeare  use  his  material? 
Did  he  pick  his  Prince  and  then  carefully  strip  him 
of  all  but  his  personal  life,  or  did  he  find  it  neces 
sary  to  deal  with  the  sum  of  problems  that  entan 
gle  a  Prince  —  questions  of  statecraft,  war  cam 
paigns,  court  functions,  public  speeches,  reform  of 
social  chaos,  etc.  ?  Assuredly  the  latter.  How 
then  shall  the  Shakespeare-follower  deal  with  the 
life  of  a  laborer  in  the  steel  mill?  Shall  he  con 
fine  himself  to  his  man's  habits  of  eating  and  drink 
ing,  his  love  affairs  and  his  knowledge  of  litera 
ture,  or,  true  to  the  Shakespearian  model,  give  the 
whole  life  of  the  man  —  his  entanglement  in  labor 
unions,  politics,  speeded  machine  work,  steel  proc 
esses,  twelve-hour  day?  Assuredly  the  latter. 
In  a  word,  most  of  the  artists  of  the  past,  including 
Shakespeare,  gave  us  problem-art  —  critics  to  the 
contrary.  It  is  merely  a  question  as  to  whether 
we  are  as  interested  in  a  workman's  problems  as  in 
a  prince's  problems.  Well,  some  of  us  are. 

But  Shakespeare  brings  up  another  question. 
How  shall  this  workman's  life  be  rendered  in  Art? 
Shall  the  writer  merely  report  the  facts  with  pho 
tographic  accuracy  and  go  no  further?  Shake 
speare,  of  course,  went  much  further.  He  gave 


TROUBLES  OF  THE  WORKSHOP    13 

not  alone  the  facts  of  Hamlet's  life,  but  he  inter 
preted  these  facts  for  his  audience;  he  penetrated 
the  puzzling  surfaces  of  life  with  the  illumination 
of  his  own  thought,  his  own  beliefs.  He  rendered 
not  merely  a  repetition  in  dramatic  form  of  the 
manners,  the  actions  of  his  Prince ;  he  made  articu 
late  the  splendid  inner  life.  In  showing  upon  the 
stage  a  man  struggling  with  jealousy  he  did  not 
content  himself  with  merely  rendering  what  one 
might  find  in  actual  life  —  say,  a  fierce  expression 
on  the  face  and  an  explosion  of  profanity  —  he 
actually  conveyed  through  words  the  tornado  of 
passion  and  thought  within  the  man  and  gave  us 
the  spectacle  of  a  tiny  creature  under  the  stars 
shaking  with  a  passion  that  revealed  an  inner  im 
mensity  that  almost  belittled  the  outer  immensity. 
Othello  at  moments  makes  the  stars  small.  And 
surely  anyone  who  has  passed  through  a  great  cri 
sis  knows  that  this  is  typical  of  human  nature  — 
that  we  all  feel,  in  some  measure,  what  Shake 
speare  has  made  articulate  for  us,  that  we  ex 
perience  what  only  a  Shakespeare  is  able  to  ex 
press.  Surely  such  Art  is  social  —  does  a  work 
for  us  all  —  increasing  our  power  of  thought,  in 
tensifying  our  sense  of  life,  releasing  through  ex 
pression  the  emotions  that  threaten  to  rend  us, 
proving  us  great  and  reanimating  our  faith  in  hu 
man  existence. 

So,  too,  must  the  writer  take  the  steel  worker  — 
if  he  can  (would  there  were  a  Shakespeare  to  do 


14     TROUBLES  OF  THE  WORKSHOP 

it !)  —  and  somehow  get  across  that  inner  life.  It 
is  hard  enough  to  show  the  inner  human  splendor 
of  a  Prince;  but  it  is  infinitely  harder  to  take  the 
lives  of  the  obscure,  the  vulgar  and  the  neglected 
and  show  the  same  truth.  Yet  how  shall  our  Art, 
too,  be  social,  unless  we  attempt  this  interpreta 
tion  ?  How  shall  we  ever  have  a  democracy  unless 
Art  shows  that  the  run  of  the  race  has  —  as  it  does 
have  —  greatness  and  splendor?  In  America,  we 
must  interpret  one  race  to  another;  one  class  to 
another;  one  type  to  another,  before  we  will 
ever  feel  that  all  have  the  same  essential  human- 
ness. 

And  following  Shakespeare  —  if  he  is  the  one 
we  care  to  follow  —  the  writer  cannot  evade  the 
task  of  throwing  into  his  work  all  his  best  faith, 
his  vision  of  the  world,  his  hopes  for  the  future, 
his  philosophy  and  science.  But  there  is,  pos 
sibly,  a  point  of  departure.  Shakespeare  evidently 
wrote  for  but  a  small  part  of  his  audience  — 
namely,  the  court  class  he  depicted.  Fortunately 
his  medium  was  one  of  action  so  that  the  mere 
pantomime,  stabbed  here  and  there  by  sharp  dia 
logue,  was  sufficient  to  hold  those  "  groundlings  " 
he  despised.  The  author  of  to-day,  however, 
using  a  medium  such  as  print,  has  a  new  problem. 
His  audience  must  really  understand  him,  and  as, 
in  our  democracy,  that  audience  is  rapidly  growing, 
unless  he  deliberately  appeals  to  but  a  fractional 
class,  he  must  labor  for  simplicity  of  structure  and 


TROUBLES  OF  THE  WORKSHOP     15 

utterance.     This  makes  it  all  the  harder  to  give  a 
great  interpretation,  a  high  illumination. 

A  tall  order  this !  And  as  these  words  are  used 
as  a  preface  to  some  short  stories  of  mine,  callous 
critics  will  think  that  I  dream  that  I  have  filled  the 
bill.  Far  from  it.  A  high  attempt  is  worth  many 
experiments  that  fail,  and  these  stories  are,  I  fear, 
more  experimental  than  successful.  But  they  are 
sincere  efforts  in  the  direction  I  have  outlined,  and 
in  view  of  the  confusion  of  criticism,  in  view  of  the 
fact  that  the  poor  artist  is  daily  troubled  by  that 
vexing  riddle,  "  What  is  Art?  "  he  can  only  send 
his  work  out  into  the  joyous  scramble  of  the  world 
and  let  it  meet  its  fate,  glad  if  a  human  being  turns 
aside  here  and  there  to  eye  his  toil  and  wish  him 
Godspeed.  The  stories  perhaps  are  nothing,  but 
possibly  the  tendencies  they  reveal  may  have 
meaning. 

J.  O. 

New  York  City, 
March,  1911. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  GREAT  FEAR    .......     21 

Hard  times  in  a  great  Industrial  city;  a  tale 
of  the  unemployed. 

MEG 49 

The  factory-woman  who  sent  her  husband  to 
jail  —  and  what  happened  when  he  returned. 

SATURDAY  NIGHT  .     , 69 

Obscure  lives  in  the  heart  of  the  city;  the  call 
of  the  electric-lit  avenues. 

THE  COG  .     , 91 

The    skilled    steel-worker    in    the    Pittsburgh 
mill;  the  twelve-hour  day;  the  wage-slavery. 

SLAG in 

The  Hunky  laborer  in  the  fires  of  Pittsburgh; 
the  brutal  passions  of  the  overworked. 

A  WOMAN     .      .      .      .     , 131 

The  lonely  struggle  of  an  alien  woman  near 
Pittsburgh;  her  daring  fight  for  her  child. 

JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS 151 

The  great  strike  near  Pittsburgh  where  fifteen 
nationalities  were  harnessed  together. 

17 


1 8  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  EMPTY  LIFE 181 

A  common  drama  of  New  York  —  the  strange 
life  of  the  ex-shop-girl  who  marries  a  clerk. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN 203 

The  saving  power  of  responsibility;  the  bitter 
struggle  of  a  young  East  Side  doctor. 

THE  BROKEN  WOMAN 221 

The  tale  of  a  Bohemian  girl;  her  love-esca 
pade;  the  man  she  supports  and  the  man  she 
loves. 

STINY  BOLINSKY 243 

The  little  boy  in  the  coal  mine;  how  the  vision 
of  the  future  penetrates  obscure  and  secret 
places. 


The  stories  collected  in  this  volume  first  appeared  in 
the  following  magazines:  The  American,  Everybody's, 
Forum,  Metropolitan,  Pearson's,  Success. 


THE  GREAT  FEAR 


PAY  ENVELOPES 

THE  GREAT  FEAR 

A  DOZEN  pieces  of  old  furniture  piled  one  on 
top  of  the  other  at  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk, 
could  mean  but  one  thing.  An  ill-clad  young  man 
stopped  to  look.  He  stood  shadowy  and  bowed 
on  the  wet,  gleaming  pavement.  The  air  was 
chill  and  a  luminous  fog  rolled  up  and  down  Sec 
ond  Avenue,  circling  the  elevated  road  pillars  and 
blurring  the  blue  gold  of  the  lights.  A  bit  of  the 
dull  light  lit  the  young  man's  face;  one  could  see 
that  his  lips  were  blue,  his  mouth  moving,  and  his 
eyes  staring. 

'The  man" — so  he  thought  half-aloud  — 
"  lost  his  job;  the  wife  had  to  get  out  and  work; 
the  kids  took  sick;  the  man  took  sick;  the  bunch 
starved  and  froze;  and  then  — "  he  smiled  bitterly 
— "  they  got  the  dispossess !  Not  for  mine !  " 

He  gazed  silently  at  a  broken  bed,  a  straw  mat 
tress  and  a  nicked  kitchen  chair.  His  jaw  squared 
and  he  jammed  his  hands  into  his  trouser  pockets. 
A  fear  —  the  Fear  —  which  had  dogged  him  for 
six  months  now  seemed  to  grapple  with  him, 

21 


22  PAY  ENVELOPES 

"  Not  for  mine!  "  he  repeated  fiercely. 

He  looked  down  the  row  of  brilliant  shop- 
windows  through  the  dim  air,  and  his  eyes  rested 
on  the  iron-grated  glass  of  a  pawnshop.  The 
window  was  choked  up  with  jewelry,  revolvers 
and  tools  —  symbols  of  the  Fear.  Unsteadily 
the  young  man  walked  across  the  pavement, 
pushed  open  a  flap-door  and  slouched  against  a 
shining  glass-topped  counter  in  a  dusky  jewel-lit 
tered  room.  The  pawnbroker  came  down  behind 
the  counter,  rubbing  his  sleek  hands. 

The  young  man  spoke  huskily: 

"  I  want  a  revolver  —  cheap" 

"Five  dollars?" 

«  Cheap  —  I  said." 

"  Three?" 

"What's  the  cheapest?" 

The  pawnbroker  looked  him  over  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  Then  he  opened  a  drawer  and 
lifted  out  an  ugly  short-barreled  pistol  a  man 
could  hide  in  his  fist 

"How's  dis?" 

The  young  man  fingered  it,  narrowing  his  eyes 
and  thinking  sharply.  His  heart  bounded  in  his 
breast. 

"How  much?" 

"  Von  dollar." 

The  young  man  brought  out  a  little  yellow  pay- 
envelope,  tore  off  one  side  and  pulled  out  a  thin 
folding  of  money.  There  were  just  twelve  dol- 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  23 

lars.  He  slapped  one  down  on  the  counter,  and 
pocketed  the  pistol  and  the  cartridges. 

The  pawnbroker  whistled  softly  as  he  watched 
the  young  man  go  shuffling  out  into  the  misty  even 
ing. 

He  walked  up  to  Eightieth  Street  and  turned 
East  through  one  of  the  shabby  streets  of  New 
York  —  cavernous,  empty  and  dark  in  the  mist. 
The  high  windowed  walls  looked  blank;  the  gut 
ter  was  muddy.  Here  poverty  was  squalid  and 
bleak  —  lit  by  far-spaced  meager  gaslights, 
fronted  and  backed  by  dull  brick  —  lifeless, 
supine. 

The  young  man  shivered  slightly  and  glanced 
about  him  like  a  hunted  dog.  Suddenly  he 
stopped  still,  under  a  flaring  blur  of  gaslight,  and 
turned  in  at  a  green  crumbling  hall.  It  smelt 
damp,  and  it  was  dark  and  deep.  He  walked 
past  the  narrow  stairway  far  to  the  rear  of  the 
ground  floor.  Again,  in  the  darkness,  he  hesi 
tated,  his  hand  searching  the  wall.  He  found  a 
door-knob  —  he  shivered  slightly  —  he  pushed 
into  his  home. 

What  struck  him  first,  like  a  hot  iron  run  into 
his  breast  so  that  he  felt  like  sobbing,  was  a  low, 
sweet  music  —  the  cooing  tones  of  a  mournful, 
lovely  voice.  The  bare  dim  kitchen-dining-room, 
with  its  rough  table  and  old  in-walled  stove  and 
naked  gas-jet,  was  small  and  warm.  Under  the 
tiny  flame  a  young  woman  sat  on  a  rocker,  sway- 


24  PAY  ENVELOPES 

ing  back  and  forth  with  a  little  baby  at  her  breast. 
The  child  uttered  little  stifled  cries;  the  mother's 
bending  face  was  very  near  it.  The  young  man 
stood,  gazing.  And  in  that  moment,  he  loved  as 
if  he  were  starved  for  love  —  loved  her  brown 
light  hair  blown  in  wisps  over  her  low  forehead; 
loved  her  pale,  hollow  cheeks  and  her  large  mourn 
ful  blue  eyes;  loved  her  thin,  callous  hands;  loved 
even  the  familiar  faded  calico. 

The  young  wife,  hearing  him,  said:  "Ssh!" 
without  looking  up,  and  warned  him  with  a  finger. 

He  stood,  miserably  swallowing  at  something  in 
his  throat,  and  then  beyond  his  help  a  groan  burst 
from  his  lips.  His  wife's  face  lifted  under  the 
light  —  startled,  white,  frightened.  She  rose  with 
the  child. 

"  Pete !  "  she  cried,  "  you  ain't  —  sick?  " 

His  lips  parted;  he  took  two  steps  and  flung  his 
arms  about  her  and  the  child,  and  half-sobbed : 

"  Annie !  Annie !  Annie !  " 

And  suddenly  he  drew  away  from  her.  She 
clutched  her  child  close  as  if  he  had  threatened  to 
steal  it  from  her. 

"  Pete !  "  she  whispered  tensely,  "  you've  —  lost 
your  job!  " 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  groaned 
again.  So  —  it  had  come  at  last  —  the  frightful 
long-expected  moment.  It  was  as  if  the  floor  be 
neath  them  cracked  open  and  they  were  plunging  a 
thousand  miles  into  Blackness.  When 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  25 

they  next  glanced  at  each  other's  face,  they  saw 
plainly  written  there  the  Fear  —  the  Great  White 
Fear.  This  is  a  Fear,  not  of  the  yellow  or  black 
races,  but  of  the  factory-drilled  whites  alone  —  the 
fear  of  unemployment,  of  dispossession,  of  money- 
lessness.  It  gives  a  hunted  look  to  a  face ;  a  man 
becomes  a  little  white  animal  cowering  in  a  corner. 

The  young  wife  felt  the  hurry  to  her  heart  of 
the  mother-passion.  What  would  happen  to  this 
little  baby  —  her  baby  —  her  son?  This  little 
thing  that  cried  so  at  her  breast? 

"  Wait !  wait !  "  she  whispered  sharply.  "  He's 
got  to  go  to  sleep !  Don't  make  a  sound !  " 

She  glided  into  the  small  dark  bedroom,  and  as 
the  young  man  sank  on  a  kitchen  chair,  his  head 
against  the  little  table,  he  heard  her  sweet  mourn 
ful  voice  singing  the  child  to  sleep.  Why  was  he 
unwittingly  forced  to  make  his  young  wife  suf 
fer  ?  What  had  she  done  ?  What  had  he  done  ? 
They  were  honest.  Good  God,  they  were  honest! 
They  earned  bread  by  the  sweat  of  their  brow; 
they  had  tasted  Poverty;  yes,  got  all  the  taste  out 
of  it,  up  against  the  palate, —  the  hot  gall,  the 
venom.  Theirs  had  been  a  life  squeezed  dry  of 
luxuries;  theirs  had  been  a  hard  fight  on  hard  food 
and  hard  hours.  Yet  all  was  well  enough, —  all 
was  splendid  —  splendid  —  save  the  Fear,  the 
Fear  that  they  went  to  bed  with  at  night,  the  Fear 
they  read  in  newspapers  at  breakfast,  the  Fear  that 
sung  in  the  factory  machines  all  day.  For  these 


26  PAY  ENVELOPES 

had  been  hard  times, —  times  of  the  Fear.  And 
now  — 

Breaking  into  his  bitter  thoughts,  came  the  light 
footsteps  he  knew  so  well.  A  hand  was  laid 
thrillingly  on  his  shoulder;  and  her  shrill  voice 
roused  him : 

"  Pete !  don't  you  care !  Ain't  we  goin'  to 
fight?  It's  all  right,  it's  all  right!  Pete!  Ain't 
we  fighters?  Now  you  tell  me  about  it!  " 

The  brave  words  sat  him  up  straight.  His 
fighting  blood  stirred;  the  saving  power  of  anger, 
anger  hot  and  strong,  swept  through  him.  And 
the  wife  calmly  took  a  bit  of  sewing  and  sat  on  the 
rocker.  He  glanced  a  second  at  her  parted  lips, 
her  flashing  eyes.  He  raised  a  clenched  fist  and 
smote  the  table  softly: 

"Damn  it!  he — "  she  knew  he  meant  the 
boss  — "  he  laid  off  the  last  of  us  to-night.  Said 
he  was  sorry  —  it's  hard  times.  Was  that  my 
fault  ?  We're  slaves  —  slaves;  this  country  better 
look  out  — " 

A  wild  light  came  into  his  eyes,  the  light  of  the 
terrorist.  His  wife,  looking  quickly,  spoke  sharp- 
ly: 

"  Don't  you  go  to  talking  that  way,  Pete ! 
Things  is  bad  enough !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  cried  hotly,  "  who  made  'em  so  ?  I  ? 
Was  I  honest?  Was  I  skillful?  Was  I  hard 
working?  Them  " —  she  knew  he  meant  the  rich 
— "  got  their  automobiles  and  yachts  and  palaces 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  27 

and  servants  hard  times  or  no  hard  times.  We're 
the  slaves.  Don't  you  cross  me,  kid  —  I  say, 
slaves.  Free  ?  Free,  how  ?  Free  to  starve,  beg, 
die, —  that's  how !  They  got  the  pay-envelopes, 
ain't  they?  Well,  we  got  to  feed  out  of  their 
hands,  and  if  they  ain't  a  mind  to  feed  us,  what 
then?  Eh?" 

She  spoke  more  sharply : 

"  That  sort  o'  talk  ain't  goin'  to  pay  the  rent. 
You  quit  it  and  you  hustle  for  a  job." 

He  looked  at  her  terribly  and  smote  the  table 
again  : 

"  Annie,  there  ain't  a  job  in  my  trade  in  the 
city!  " 

She  shivered  in  spite  of  herself.     He  spoke  the 
truth.     ?She  swallowed  hard: 

"  You've  —  got  to  do  something !  " 
"What?     Come,  now,  what've  I  got  to  do?" 
"  Anything  —  any  job." 
"  Ain't  there  thousands  looking?  " 
"  But,  Pete,  you're  strong  and  young  — " 
"  Not  so  strong,  not  so  young  as  you  think." 
In  the  silence  they  heard  the  East  River  tugs 
wailing  against  the  fog.     In  a  tenement  opposite 
a  child  was  crying  loudly.     A  gray  chill  seemed  to 
settle  about  their  hearts.     They  were  alone  in  the 
Desert  of  the  City.     Millions  of  souls  wove  their 
warm  lives  about  them  —  in  the  flat  above,  in  the 
street  outside,  up  and  down  Manhattan  and  over 
the  bridges.     Shops  were  full  of  food  and  clothes; 


28  PAY  ENVELOPES 

there  were  houses  enough  for  a  million  more  souls ; 
trains  and  ships  swept  in  with  floods  of  riches ;  fac 
tories  poured  out  produce.  A  great  city  of  civili 
zation,  well-lit,  sanitary,  secure,  towering  its  wealth 
into  the  very  skies,  held  them  in  its  mighty  heart. 
Yet  they  were  on  a  Robinson  Crusoe  Island. 
They  were  exiles  in  their  own  city.  The  huge 
machine  in  whirling  had  thrown  them  out  into 
the  gutter.  The  race  said  to  them:  "Not 
wanted."  They  were  in  a  prison  without  a 
jailor  to  bring  them  food  and  keep  them  warm, 
< —  the  prison  of  the  Great  White  Fear.  For  a 
moment  they  avoided  each  other's  eyes.  They 
were  panic-stricken, —  an  unreasoning  terror  rush 
ing  the  blood  to  their  heads.  They  knew  they 
could  not  even  help  themselves,  though  in  the 
midst  of  plenty.  Something  had  gone  wrong 
with  the  world.  But  who  was  to  blame?  The 
Boss,  squeezed  by  Hard  Times?  The  honest 
worker  ?  Who  ? 

Silently  they  sat  in  the  dim  room,  gazing  upon 
the  floor,  and  then  at  last  the  young  wife  spoke 
tremblingly : 

"  How  much  have  you  got?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence : 

"Here!" 

He  pulled  out  the  yellow  envelope  and  handed 
it  to  her.  She  grasped  it  with  feverish  hands,  and 
suddenly  looked  at  him. 

"It's/or*,  Pete!" 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  29 

He  looked  at  the  table,  and  mumbled, 

"  Yes." 

Something  like  a  pang  bit  her  heart.  She  pulled 
out  the  bills. 

"  Pete,  there's  only  eleven  —  there  ought  to  be 
twelve!  " 

He  half-closed  his  eyes: 

"  I  spent  one." 

"  For  what?"  Her  tone  was  frightened:  it 
shook  him. 

He  could  stand  the  strain  no  longer.  He  sud 
denly  rose,  and  for  the  first  time  since  the  child 
came,  rough-mouthed  her. 

"  It's  none  of  yer  business !     Shut  up  !  " 

Out  into  the  black  bedroom  he  swung.  Some 
how  he  stumbled  against  the  crib.  Soft  light  from 
the  kitchen  fell  on  the  sleeping  child.  He  leaned 
close.  Hard  times  indeed  had  come;  he  had 
wronged  his  wife ;  she  too  was  suffering.  He  swal 
lowed  again  and  softly  felt  in  his  pocket  for  the 
lump  of  cold  steel. 

Then  he  fell  to  brooding  on  the  baby's  face. 
Sleep  is  an  elemental  thing,  full  of  awe.  The 
breathing  of  the  child  came  very  tenderly ;  the  blue 
transparent  lids  were  softly  shut;  the  dark  little 
head  was  bent  back;  the  little  hands  stuck  up  in  the 
air  with  helpless  waxen  fingers.  It  was  his  child, 
his  own  son,  fast  asleep.  Mystery  of  Sleep !  mys 
tery  of  Fatherhood!  He  gazed  and  his  mood 
strangely  softened.  The  tears  choked  his  throat. 


30  PAY  ENVELOPES 

He  turned  away;  he  staggered  slowly  into  the 
kitchen ;  he  sank  on  the  chair  at  the  table ;  he  low 
ered  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  he  cried  softly  like 
a  little  child. 

"  I  wish  the  kid  had  never  been  born !  "  he 
sobbed. 

The  woman's  arms  were  about  him,  soft  and 
comforting,  and  her  voice  murmured  a  hundred 
meaningless  things  in  his  ear. 

But  he  sobbed:  "  It's  no  world  for  a  poor  little 
kid!" 

Yet  he  drew  her  close,  he  lifted  his  face  to  hers, 
and  looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  they  smiled  ten 
derly,  luminously.  Their  hearts  filled  with  love. 
They  were  marvelously  soothed  and  calmed. 

"  Pete,"  smiled  the  young  wife,  "  we're  goin'  to 
fight,  ain't  we  ?  We're  fighters,  Pete !  Ain't  we 
goin'  to  fight?" 

"  Sure,  Annie !  "  he  laughed,  "  like  the  devil !  " 

The  Hunt  began  early  next  morning  —  the 
Hunt  for  the  Job.  The  hunter,  however,  is  really 
the  hunted.  Now  and  then  he  bares  his  skin  to  the 
unthinking  blows  of  the  world,  and  runs  off  to  hide 
himself  in  the  crowd.  You  may  see  him  bobbing 
along  the  turbulent  man-currents  of  Broadway,  a 
tide-tossed  derelict  in  the  thousand-foot  shadows  of 
the  skyscrapers.  The  mob  about  him  is  lusty  with 
purpose,  each  unit  making  his  appointed  place,  the 
morning  rush  to  work  bearing  the  stenographer  to 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  31 

her  machine,  the  broker  to  his  ticker,  the  iron 
worker  to  his  sky-dangling  beam.  In  the  mighty 
machine  of  the  city  each  has  his  place,  each  is  pro 
vided  for,  each  gets  the  glow  of  sharing  in  the 
world's  work.  The  morning  rush,  splashed  at 
street  crossings  with  the  gold  of  the  Eastern  sun,  is 
rippled  with  fresh  eyes  and  busy  lips.  They  are 
all  in  the  machine.  But  our  young  man  crouching 
in  a  corner  of  the  crowded  car  is  not  of  these ;  slink 
ing  down  Broadway  he  is  aware  that  the  machine 
has  thrown  him  out  and  he  cannot  get  in.  He  is 
an  exile  in  the  midst  of  his  own  people.  The  sense 
of  loneliness  and  inferiority  eats  the  heart  out  of 
the  breast;  the  good  of  life  is  gone;  the  blackness 
soaks  across  the  city  and  into  his  home,  his  love,  his 
soul. 

Some  go  bitter  and  are  for  throwing  bombs; 
some  despair  and  are  for  wiping  themselves  away; 
some  —  the  rank  and  file  —  are  for  fighting  to  the 
last  ditch.  Peter  pendulated  between  all  three  of 
these  moods.  In  ordinary  times  he  would  have 
been  all  fight;  in  these  hard  times,  drenched  with 
the  broadcast  hopelessness  of  men,  he  knew  he  was 
foredoomed  to  defeat.  Only  a  miracle  could  save 
him. 

Trudging  up  Seventy-ninth  Street  to  Third  Ave 
nue,  fresh  with  Annie's  kiss  and  the  baby's  pranks, 
he  had  the  last  bit  of  daring  dashed  out  of  him  by 
a  strange  throng  of  men.  Before  a  small  He 
brew  synagogue,  packed  in  the  deep  area  were 


32  PAY  ENVELOPES 

forty  unemployed  workers,  jammed  crowd-thick 
against  the  windows  and  gate.  It  was  fresh 
weather,  not  cold,  yet  the  men  shivered.  Their 
bodies  had  for  long  been  unwarmed  by  sufficient 
food  or  clothing ;  there  was  a  grayness  about  them 
as  of  famished  wolves;  their  lips  and  fingers  were 
blue;  they  were  unshaved  and  frowzy  with  some 
vile  sleeping  place.  Hard  times  had  blotched  the 
city  with  a  myriad  of  such  groups.  And  as  Peter 
stopped  and  imagined  himself  driven  at  last  among 
them,  he  saw  a  burly  fellow  emerge  from  the 
house  and  begin  handing  out  charity  bowls  of  hot 
coffee  and  charity  bread.  Peter,  independent 
American  workman,  was  stung  at  the  sight;  the 
souls  of  these  workers  were  somehow  being  out 
raged:  they  were  eating  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
comfortable,  like  so  many  gutter  dogs. 

The  rest  of  the  morning  Peter  dared  now  and 
then  to  present  himself  at  an  office  to  ask  work. 
At  some  places  he  tried  boldness,  at  others  meek 
ness,  and  at  last  he  begged,  "  For  God's  sake,  I 
have  a  wife  and  baby  — "  He  met  with  various 
receptions  at  the  hands  of  clerks,  office  boys  and 
bosses.  A  few  were  sorry,  some  turned  their 
backs,  the  rest  hurried  him  out.  Each  refusal, 
each  "  not  wanted  in  the  scheme  of  things,"  shot 
him  out  into  the  streets,  stripped  of  another  bit  of 
self-reliance.  In  spite  of  himself,  he  began  to  feel 
his  poor  appearance,  his  drooping  lip,  his  broken 
purpose.  He  was  a  failure  and  the  world  could 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  33 

not  use  him.  He  hardly  dared  to  look  a  man  in 
the  eyes,  to  lift  his  voice  above  a  whisper,  to  make 
a  demand,  to  dare  a  refusal.  He  slunk  home  at 
last  like  a  cowed  and  beaten  animal. 

It  was  two  in  the  afternoon.  Wearily  he 
pushed  in  the  door,  and  stood  in  the  dancing  sun 
light  on  the  kitchen  floor.  At  the  window,  in  the 
dazzling  light,  Annie  was  tucking  the  baby  in  the 
little  shiny  go-cart.  She  looked  up  anxiously  and 
saw  his  stricken  sick  face  and  the  limp  body  with 
the  life  gone  out  of  it. 

She  glided  over  to  him;  she  hushed  his  complain 
ing  lips  with  a  kiss;  she  crowded  him  in  a  chair  and 
brought  him  food;  she  let  the  full  measure  of  her 
love  go  warming  through  him.  Like  the  true 
mother-wife  she  prattled  on  about  the  baby,  archly 
drawing  smiles  to  his  taut  lips,  and  at  last  she  in 
duced  him  to  walk  out  with  her  in  the  sunny  after 
noon.  Up  the  streets  to  the  West  he  wheeled  the 
go-cart,  and  Annie  walked  at  his  side  talking 
quickly.  They  trudged  through  a  strange  slash  of 
the  city's  life,  squalid  poverty  to  Third  Avenue, 
mediocre  fringes  of  middle  class  to  Lexington, 
middle  class  respectability  to  Madison,  luxurious 
wealth  to  Fifth  Avenue,  and  then  one  of  the  loveli 
est  stretches  of  landscape  Park  beyond.  As  they 
walked  block  by  block  west,  the  street  grew  quieter, 
finer,  less  crowded,  more  and  more  palatial,  and 
last  they  stepped  from  the  avenue-divided  social 
classes  of  Man  into  the  sweet  democracy  of  Nature. 


34  PAY  ENVELOPES 

The  hills  were  yet  green  and  pure;  pines  glittered 
green  among  bare  boughs  in  the  wash  of  sun;  the 
walks  were  clean ;  the  air  fresh  and  tingling.  Here 
mingled  the  well-to-do  and  the  poor,  bench  by 
bench,  and  they  sat  down,  and  to  Peter  came  a 
moment  of  deep  peace,  fraught  with  thoughts  alien 
to  his  daily  life.  The  escape  from  Man,  from  the 
world  that  did  not  want  him,  brought  him  face  to 
face  with  quiet  Nature,  the  world  that  had 
arms  to  gather  in  all  that  came.  Here  he  had  a 
place  at  last ;  he  felt  a  new  kinship  with  the  still  life 
of  the  earth ;  he  had  come  back  to  the  mother  of  all. 
Sitting  on  the  hard  bench,  and  pushing  the  go-cart 
out  and  in,  a  strange  sense  of  a  God  in  things 
swept  his  brain  and  a  mood  eternal  with  life  and 
death  and  mystery  possessed  him.  He  had  never 
been  religious;  but  now  his  heart  opened  out  to  the 
undercurrent  of  all  the  hurling  worlds,  and  he  was 
softened,  subdued  to  Nature,  and,  for  the  time  be 
ing,  calm  and  ready. 

So  went  the  days  until  the  money  dwindled 
away, —  the  mornings  of  humiliation,  the  after 
noons  of  peace.  Annie  was  roused  to  her  full 
strength;  they  ate  their  money  penny  by  penny; 
they  resolutely  forgot  the  little  daily  pleasures. 
And  yet  within  two  weeks,  there  was  nothing  left. 
Peter  was  up  before  dawn  each  morning  to  an 
swer  advertisements;  but  each  time  he  was  one  of 
a  hundred  men  storming  one  job.  Several  times 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  35 

the  employer  had  to  call  the  police  to  disperse  the 
mob  of  the  unemployed.  There  was  work  no 
where;  men  hung  feverishly  to  their  jobs;  ordinary 
men  did  extraordinary  work;  only  those  were  laid 
off  whose  positions  were  squeezed  out  by  the  busi 
ness  slump.  And  so  Peter  was  buffeted  about  in 
the  whirlpool,  cuffed  by  the  whirlwind  —  a  useless 
bit  of  humanity.  His  misery  became  more  numb 
and  callous ;  the  pain  of  it  grew  less  and  less ;  but  so 
did  the  man.  He  was  acquiring  the  tramp-soul, 
the  vagrant-heart  He  grew  careless  of  how  he 
looked  or  where  he  drifted.  He  was  sinking 
down  from  social  stratum  to  social  stratum ;  he  was 
slowly  being  engulfed  by  the  Undertow,  the  Un 
derworld  of  Crime  and  Vagrancy  that  is  the  quick 
sand-foundation  of  the  modern  city,  over  which 
the  strong  world  towers  like  a  house  of  cards. 

When  he  came  home,  numb,  white,  sullen,  An 
nie's  silent  fear  grew  day  by  day.  All  that  was 
left  in  the  home  now  was  love,  and  that  was  en 
dangered.  Peter  was  morose  and  harsh  and  un 
responsive.  The  Park,  which  at  first  was  the 
saving  touch,  now  made  him  impatient.  Tramp- 
restlessness  had  seized  him.  He  could  not  sit  still 
on  a  bench  and  be  quiet  with  the  hills. 

It  was  a  night  of  wild  storm.  All  afternoon  he 
had  been  meditating  on  two  things.  One  was 
flight  from  his  wife  and  child,  flight  from  the 
hyena  city,  flight  from  the  burden.  The  other  was 
the  lump  of  steel  in  his  pocket  that  could  be  hid- 


36  PAY  ENVELOPES 

den  in  a  man's  fist.  This  last  meant  flight  from 
everything,  including  himself. 

The  low,  back  kitchen  was  dim  with  a  flicker 
ing  gaslight;  the  wild  storm  beat  with  gusts  of 
washing  rain  down  the  sealed  windows;  the  gale 
roared  through  the  backyards,  slamming  shutters 
and  whistling  over  clotheslines,  and  in  the  dimness 
at  the  small  center  table  Annie  and  Peter  ate  a 
meager  supper  of  bread  and  foul  coffee.  Each 
time  they  moved  the  floor  creaked  weirdly.  Now 
and  then  a  burst  of  noise  swept  down  the  airshaft 
as  if  to  smother  them. 

They  were  drunk  with  despair  —  the  young 
wife  thin,  hollow-cheeked,  unkempt,  biting  slowly 
at  a  crust  of  bread;  the  lean  white- faced  man  sit 
ting,  head  on  hand,  sullen  and  absorbed  in  his 
mood.  He  was  thinking  of  death.  Face  to  face 
with  it,  he  was  going  through  a  Hamlet-soliloquy 
in  terms  of  an  American  workman.  What  was  he 
facing,  so  common,  so  universal,  so  inevitable,  so 
inscrutable?  The  vast  mystery  of  his  own  life 
wrapped  him  like  a  rising  ocean.  He  that  was 
sitting  there,  alive  in  every  nerve,  brain  thinking, 
hands  moving,  heart  beating,  what  would  happen 
to  him  if  he  lifted  the  lump  of  steel  and  emptied 
one  of  its  chambers  into  his  skull?  There  was  but 
a  film,  after  all,  between  this  world  and  the  next. 
Did  it  matter  if  he  faced  the  Thing,  had  it  out 
with  the  Thing,  now,  or  a  few  years  later? 
Didn't  it  all  come  to  the  same  in  the  end?  The 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  37 

world  did  not  want  him.     Why  should  he  want 
the  world?     They  must  be  rid  of  each  other. 

Into  this  soliloquy  broke  his  wife's  voice,  and 
yet  as  if  from  far  away : 

"  Peter." 

"  Yes." 

"  Peter r 

"What  you  want?"     Sullen,  defiant. 

"  PETER !  "  She  suddenly  bowed  her  head, 
and  the  weeks  of  terror  had  their  pay.  She 
sobbed  wildly. 

He  looked  at  her  stupidly.  Why  cry,  when  it 
was  all  the  same  in  the  end? 

She  lifted  her  face  —  wild  with  sobs. 

"  Peter  —  you've  got  to  speak  to  me  —  this  — 
this  has  got  to  stop !  It  will  drive  me  crazy!  " 

In  the  moment's  silence,  her  strange  sobs  chimed 
in  with  the  swashing  blows  of  the  rain  and  the 
noise  of  the  airshaft.  They  were  in  the  deepest 
pit  in  a  world  of  desolation. 

Peter  shifted  uneasily  and  mumbled  in  a  numb 
voice : 

"Well  — well— " 

He  had  never  seen  his  wife  in  this  frantic  state. 
She  lifted  her  head  again,  and  her  words  came 
sharp,  hot,  and  flew  wild: 

"  I  can't  stand  it  —  I  can't  —  I  can't !  You've 
changed  —  you  don't  love  me,  Peter  —  you  don't 
love  the  baby  any  more  —  what  is  it?  Are  you 
going  to  kill  yourself?  Are  you  going  to  leave 


3 8  PAY  ENVELOPES 

us  ?  What  did  we  do  to  you  ?  Haven't  I  tried  to 
help  you  a  little  bit  at  least?  I'm  a  poor  fool  — 
I'm  a  poor  fool  of  a  woman  —  oh!  " 

He  bit  his  lips  and  automatically  put  his  hand 
in  his  pocket  and  clutched  the  cold  lump  of  steel, 
His  wife  put  her  two  hands  to  her  face  —  hers 
was  exquisite  misery  at  that  moment.  She  spoke 
in  a  low  wail: 

"  Oh,  what  have  we  done  that  we  must  suffer 
this  way?  And  the  baby — "  she  lowered  her 
voice  and  spoke  in  an  intense  whisper.  "  He's 
going  to  be  sick  —  he's  going  to  die!  And  you," 
she  cried  wildly,  "you're  his  father  —  you're  my 
husband!  Good  God!  why  don't  you  act  like  a 
man !  " 

Anger  touched  him: 

"  Have  I  hunted  a  job  or  not?  Get  one  your 
self,  if  it's  easy  as  talking." 

She  looked  at  him,  startled,  white, —  a  new 
light  dawning  across  her  storm-tossed  brain.  She 
paused  a  moment;  she  caught  his  eyes;  she  spoke 
straight  into  him,  making  him  quiver. 

"  /  will,  Peter!  " 

Something  shocked  hot  and  cold  through  him. 

«  You'll  —  you'll  —     What'll  you  do  ?  " 

"  I'll  get  a  job  —  there's  lots  of  jobs  as  servants. 
I'll  get  a  job!" 

His  jaw  fell. 

"  You!  " 

She  rose  to  her  feet  unsteadily. 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  39 

"  I'm  tired;  I'm  going  to  bed." 

And  she  crawled  to  her  place  beside  her  child. 
For  long  hours  Peter  sat,  head  in  his  hand,  a  vague 
new  trouble  stirring  his  heart  into  life,  a  new  and 
vaster  sense  of  tragedy  and  ruin,  a  feeling  of  the 
moral  order  of  the  world  upset,  of  something 
sacred  gone  from  life.  And  the  storm  blew  about 
the  tenement,  sounding  the  dirge  of  the  flight  of 
human  souls. 

At  five  the  next  morning  the  sleeping  man  was 
roused  by  his  wife.  He  sat  up,  and  in  the  gray 
glimmering  light  saw  Annie  standing  at  the  bed 
side  with  the  baby  in  her  arms.  She  spoke 
sharply : 

"Peter!  quick!  I  want  to  show  you!  Wake 
up!" 

She  laid  the  baby  on  the  bed,  and  again  and 
again  showed  him  how  to  change  the  clothes.  She 
did  not  notice  his  sullen  listlessness,  but  spoke  on 
and  on,  giving  endless  directions  about  the  bottle 
of  milk  and  the  baby's  outing  and  sleep.  The 
baby  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  cooing  and  fondling 
its  feet  Suddenly  Annie  turned  from  it,  seized 
Peter  by  both  hands,  leaned  near  and  looked  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Peter,  I'm  trusting  you  with  the  best  of  my 
life  —  with  all  I've  got  —  my  flesh  and  blood 
and  — "  she  stopped.  "  Promise  me  — "  her 
voice  rose  almost  hysterically — "promise  me, 


40  PAY  ENVELOPES 

you'll  do  nothing  rash, —  that  you'll  act  like  a 
man, —  Peter, —  that  I  can  trust  you !  " 

He  was  silent,  his  eyes  on  the  baby. 

"Peter,"  she  cried,  "promise  me!" 

"  Oh,  I'll  promise,"  he  mumbled. 

She  bent  suddenly,  kissing  him  on  the  lips;  a 
tear  splashed  his  hand.  A  moment  later  she  was 
hugging  and  hugging  her  baby.  And  then  she  was 
gone  and  the  door  shut  softly. 

Peter  was  much  perturbed;  he  had  a  desire  to 
sob;  something  tough  and  hard  and  callous, 
knotted  like  a  cancer  about  his  heart,  began  to 
dissolve  away.  But  he  crawled  out  of  bed,  laid 
the  baby  in  its  crib,  and  slipped  into  his  clothes. 
Then  a  busy  time  began  for  him.  He  felt  curi 
ously  weak  and  empty,  like  a  mere  tottering  shell 
of  a  man.  It  was  hunger  and  cold  and  sickness 
and  the  Great  White  Fear.  And  it  was  some 
thing  new,  the  sense  of  the  sacred  gone  out  of  life. 

He  began  his  work,  however,  with  a  grim  touch 
of  humor.  He  was  a  poor  sort  of  a  mother  at 
best,  and  of  late  he  had  been  a  poor  sort  of  a 
father.  He  tussled  long  with  the  child's  cries, 
rocking  him,  walking  him,  mumbling  foolish  words 
over  the  little  head.  Finally  he  got  the  milk,  and 
stilled  the  child  by  over-feeding  it. 

And  then  the  long  day  began.  It  was  a  gray 
cold  day,  but  rainy  fresh  with  the  night's  storm, 
and  at  ten  that  morning  there  was  seen,  cutting 
through  squalor  and  wealth  to  the  fading  Park, 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  41 

a  thin,  sick,  pale  young  man  wheeling  a  go-cart. 
He  walked  alone,  shuffling  his  feet,  and  leaning 
heavily  over  the  handle.  There  had  been  no 
breakfast  but  a  crust  of  bread  and  he  was  sick, 
sick  through  and  through,  nauseous,  fever-shaken. 

In  the  Park  he  doubled  up  weakly  on  a  bench 
and  pushed  the  go-cart  out  and  in.  And  then  the 
unbidden  terrible  thoughts  began  to  tramp,  tramp, 
tramp  across  his  brain.  He  knew  now  that  he  was 
no  "master  of  his  fate;"  the  vast  forces  of  the 
world,  the  interplay  of  human  souls,  the  sweep  of 
events,  the  cyclone  of  life,  were  all  bearing  him 
against  his  will  to  strange  issues.  Somehow  he 
had  been  caught  in  a  cataract  and  swept  away. 
Even  now,  at  the  great  moment  of  decision,  his 
hands  were  tied.  The  only  freedom  he  had  was 
the  freedom  to  die;  this  was  the  moment;  this  was 
the  only  act  he  could  do  to  regain  his  mastery. 
And  he  had  rashly  promised  this  away.  To  what 
end? 

And  then  bitterly  the  tramping  thoughts  flashed 
across  his  brain  scene  after  scene,  mood  after 
mood,  of  his  earlier  life.  He  was  back  in  the 
moonlit  streets  of  summer,  when  he  and  Annie 
used  to  sit  on  the  steps  of  the  stoop,  and  this  world 
was  the  pure  magic;  the  nights  that  were  the  true 
days  of  life,  the  nights  of  sweet,  frail  first  love. 
And  he  was  back  to  his  pride  in  his  independence, 
the  pride  that  prompted  him  to  ask  her  to  be  his 
wife,  to  be  the  mother  of  his  children.  They  had 


42  PAY  ENVELOPES 

not  expected  an  easy  life;  they  were  not  used  to 
that.  But  they  had  expected  and  entered  into  a 
warm  little  kingdom,  a  snug  fairyland  of  Home, 
only  two  rooms,  but  Annie  in  them.  And  his 
greatest  pride  had  been  that  he  was  the  man,  that 
he  was  the  breadwinner,  that  Annie  was  free  to 
be  a  wife  and  a  mother.  The  coming  of  the  child 
had  eaten  up  his  savings,  but  there  was  left  his 
strength,  his  skilled  hands,  his  ambition,  and  his 
deep  love  for  Annie. 

At  this  thought  the  poor  young  man  doubled 
over  deeper,  and  had  to  stifle  his  sobs. 

And  now?  Events  in  which  he  had  no  part 
had  suddenly  broken  his  life  to  pieces.  No  one 
was  to  blame.  So  the  world  moved,  and  in  mov 
ing,  crushed.  And  it  had  mercilessly  crushed  him, 
not  only  physically,  but  —  he  sat  up  suddenly  — 
his  mind  aghast.  He  was  face  to  face  with  his 
mutilated  heart. 

And  now  Annie  had  gone  out  to  be  the  Man, 
and  he  had  stayed  home  to  be  the  Woman.  This 
then  was  the  sacred  something  that  had  been  lost. 
He  felt  dimly,  though  there  was  no  clear  thinking, 
that  the  most  sacred  part  of  their  marriage  was 
that  he  was  the  Man  and  she  the  Woman,  that 
the  world-struggle  fell  to  him,  the  home-struggle 
to  her  —  a  relationship  touched  sacred  by  a  million 
human  years  up  from  the  very  cave  of  the  first  man, 
— •  something  so  ingrained  in  human  bone  and  flesh 
that  it  was  nearly  as  sacred  as  the  more  ancient 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  43 

love.     Would  it  not  have  been  better  to  kill  him 
self,  than  to  let  the  marriage  be  killed? 

It  was  supper  time.  The  poor  sick  man  had 
cradled  his  baby  in  his  arms,  until  the  little  one 
slept.  Then  tenderly,  very  tenderly,  with  eyes 
gone  blind,  he  had  laid  the  few  pounds  of  human 
flesh  in  the  crib.  He  was  strangely  changed.  He 
wandered  weakly  up  and  down  the  dim  kitchen. 
He  forgot  how  hungry  he  was,  how  empty  and 
fever-stricken. 

His  heart,  his  mind,  his  soul,  were  yearning  for 
Annie.  He  hungered  for  her;  the  sight  of  her 
mournful  blue  eyes,  the  pathetic,  old-known  hol- 
lowness  of  her  cheeks,  the  touch  of  her  hands. 
The  world  had  crippled  him  and  driven  her  from 
her  home;  they  were  both  greatly  wronged;  he 
was  becoming  a  mere  woman,  and  she  a  man. 
But  who  could  help  it?  There  was  that  little 
baby  in  the  crib !  One  had  to  care  for  him,  one 
had  to  give  all  up  utterly,  as  Annie  had  done,  that 
one  young  soul  might  live  and  grow  and  be  sunned 
into  a  man.  One  had  to  sacrifice  even  a  bit  of 
manhood. 

He  walked  up  and  down,  hungering  for  his 
wife.  He  stopped  to  listen  to  each  sound.  He 
did  not  wonder  any  more  why  life  is,  or  death  is, 
or  pain  is.  He  knew  —  that  love  is. 

And  then,  at  last,  startling  him  in  spite  of  his 
expectancy,  the  door  burst  open  and  Annie  rushed 


44  PAY  ENVELOPES 

in.  Twilight  had  come  and  the  room  was  ghostly 
and  gray.  Just  for  a  moment,  glimmeringly  at 
the  shining  stove  he  stood,  irresolute,  drinking  in 
each  feature  of  her  face,  loving  fiercely  the  light 
brown  hair  blown  in  wisps  over  the  low  forehead; 
the  large  blue  eyes,  now  flashing  so  strangely;  the 
deep  cheeks,  now  so  darkly  colored,  the  whole 
woman  dim  and  soft  in  the  twilight.  And  then 
it  came  over  him  that  she  was  sparkling  with  ex 
citement.  And  he  noticed  that  she  carried  two 
bulging  paper  bags. 

"  Peter !  "  she  cried,  "  the  baby  —  how  is  he  ?  " 

He  could  hardly  speak;  he  blurted. 

"  He's  —  all  right  —  and  you  —  did  you  get 
it?" 

She  put  down  the  bags. 

"  Supper,  Pete !  "  she  cried  in  an  exhilarating 
voice,  that  swept  electricity  through  him.  "  Sup 
per!" 

She  rushed  and  flung  her  arms  about  him. 

"  Pete,  Pete !  I  got  it !  I  got  a  job !  It's  a 
dollar  a  day  —  very  special.  A  grand  house  over 
near  Fifth  Avenue.  Peter!  Ain't  it  glorious, 
Pete?" 

He  humbly  drew  her  close,  and  then  the  ex 
periences  of  the  day  overmastered  him.  The 
growing  mood  of  the  long  weeks  broke  its  ice  and 
went  pell-mell  down  the  valleys  of  April.  He 
heaved  terribly,  his  shoulders  wrenched  — 


THE  GREAT  FEAR  45 

wrenched  —  his  head  went  down  on  her  shoulder 
—  he  knew  not  what  he  was  doing,  but  the  long 
unnatural  man-sobs  shook  through  the  darkening 
room. 

"  Pete !  "  she  cried,  taking  him  closer  and  closer. 
"  It's  all  right!  Everything's  all  right!  Don't 
you  feel  that  way  about  it!  I  love  the  work, 
honest,  I  do,  and  we  can  live,  Pete  I  We  can  wait. 
Better  times  are  coming!  " 

He  laughed  through  his  sobs  weirdly. 

"  You're  the  man  of  the  two  of  us.  You're  the 
fighter!" 

"  Don't  you  believe  it,  Pete !  "  she  cried. 
"  But  get  busy;  light  up  big  and  blazing;  set  the 
table.  I  got  —  what  you  love  best  —  guess  — 
guess  — " 

"  What!  "  he  mumbled,  "  cornbeef  — " 

"  And  cabbage  — "  she  cried. 

He  kissed  and  kissed  her  like  a  man  possessed, 
the  big  tears  on  his  twitching  cheeks.  He  stroked 
and  stroked  her  cheek  softly;  he  held  her  face 
away  to  look  into  it  with  lustrous  eyes,  its  shades 
of  love  and  fondness.  And  then,  softly,  he 
whispered : 

;<  Wait  a  minute,  wait  a  minute !  " 

Swiftly  he  slouched  through  the  darkness  to  the 
square  of  window  stained  with  the  few  lights  back 
of  the  yards.  He  raised  it,  his  figure  black 
against  it,  he  drew  secretly  from  his  pocket  a 


46  PAY  ENVELOPES 

lump  of  steel  hidden  in  his  fist,  he  reached  out  his 
hand  and  opened  it  —  and  listened.  Something 
hard  hit  the  pavement  of  the  backyard. 

And  Annie,  bustling  about  with  the  supper, 
though  the  tears  streamed,  pretended  that  she  did 
not  hear. 

But  he  stood  gazing  on  the  first  star  in  the  far- 
flushed  skies,  the  evening  star,  and  he  knew  and 
Annie  knew  by  some  strange  vast  tide  of  light 
through  their  hearts,  that  the  Great  White  Fear 
had  been  flung  out  of  the  window,  and  was  gone 
forever.  There  would  be  Hard  Times  and  Good 
Times,  there  would  be  new  Exilings  and  New 
Hunts,  but  they  had  learned  how  to  Fight,  to 
Fight  in  team  with  all  the  strength  of  man  and 
woman  married.  They  had  won  their  roof  and 
their  crust. 


MEG 


\ 


MEG 

CHARPLY  at  six  the  factory  whistle  loosed  a 
long  blast  through  the  rainstorm.  In  the  twi 
light  before  the  gray  walls  glowed  a  naked  arc- 
light  on  a  tall  pole.  Under  it  at  once  poured  a 
swarm  of  workwomen  and  workmen,  stringing  out 
suddenly  into  a  snake  of  people  that  glided  down 
the  broad  path  of  the  flatlands. 

The  wild  day  was  closing  over  them.  The  rain 
drenched  them  to  the  skin.  They  huddled  up, 
hurried,  collars  high,  hands  in  pockets,  until  they 
climbed  the  embankment  of  the  road  and  disap 
peared  beneath  the  street  lamps.  Here  and  there 
under  a  lamp  a  child  waited  its  father  or  mother 
with  an  umbrella. 

One  woman,  however,  did  not  follow  the  crowd. 
She  turned,  alone,  down  a  narrow  path  to  the  left, 
and  strode  rapidly  until  she  seemed  a  moving, 
lonesome  figure,  huge-black  on  the  flat  country. 
This  woman  was  well  built.  She  swung  rhythmic 
ally,  her  whole  body  walking.  Her  bare  head 
took  the  rain  upright.  Strands  of  gold-bronze 
hair  fluttered  out.  She  rocked  her  arms.  Her 
face,  lost  in  the  shadows  of  dying  day,  and 
splattered  with  raindrops,  was  strangely  wild  — 

49 


50  PAY  ENVELOPES 

gray  eyes  set  in  dark  lashes,  firm  chin  and  mouth, 
high  cheekbones,  low  forehead  —  something  of 
the  gipsy,  something  tameless  and  homeless. 

But  this  woman's  hands  were  hard  and  big  with 
labor  and  her  clothes  were  patches.  Her  shoes 
sloughed  water,  as  she  was  continually  stepping 
through  rain  puddles.  Her  clothes  and  hands 
belied  her  face. 

She  gained  a  little  strip  of  pines,  passed 
through,  sniffing  eagerly  at  the  fresh,  pungent  air, 
and  then  swung  over  a  meadow,  along  a  path  al 
most  lost  in  earth's  autumn.  Her  skirts  became 
soaked  by  the  high  flowers  through  which  she 
brushed.  There  were  goldenrod  and  lavender 
asters,  a  wildness  of  them.  Her  eyes  were  wet 
with  tears  as  she  beheld  them. 

Then  suddenly  she  came  to  the  rear  of  a  two- 
family  house,  rising  gray  from  the  meadow  to  the 
nearby  street.  A  window  on  the  rear  porch  was 
lit.  She  stepped  up,  knocked  on  the  door  and 
pushed  it  open.  A  thin,  middle-aged  woman  was 
busy  at  the  stove. 

She  looked  up  and  nodded. 

"  Sleepin' —  as  usual.  My,  but  you're  wet, 
Meg!" 

Meg  did  not  answer.  She  shook  herself  like  a 
dog,  and  stepped  across  the  room.  Against  the 
wall  was  an  improvised  cot  —  two  chairs,  backs 
outward,  cushioned  with  a  long  pillow  and  quilts. 
On  the  top  slept  a  tiny  baby. 


MEG  51 

Meg  leaned  over  the  child  a  moment,  then 
deftly  raised  it  and  drew  it  close. 

"  Get  my  envelope  to-morrer,"  she  murmured. 
"  Owe  you  $2.50  for  keepin'  her,  don't  I?  " 

The  woman  nodded.  Meg  hurried  to  the  door. 
Suddenly  she  turned.  There  was  a  wild  light  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Mrs.  Heney !  " 

"Yep?" 

"  Say  —  he's  out  to-day." 

The  woman  seemed  startled,  a  little  excited. 
She  stepped  over  to  Meg. 

"  Out  to-day !     Coming  home  ?  " 

"Don't  know!  " 

Mrs.  Heney  leaned  near  and  whispered: 

"Said  he'd  kill  you,  didn't  he?  Better  stay 
here,  Meg." 

Meg  straightened  up. 

"  No  —  I'm    going    home.     It's   got   to    come 


some  time." 


She  turned,  opened  the  door,  and  slipped  into 
the  blackness.  Gropingly,  but  swiftly,  she 
rounded  the  house  to  the  street,  gained  the  wet 
shiny-spotted  pavement  and  hurried  on.  The 
child  did  not  awake.  Rain  splashed  its  little  head; 
its  little  fingers,  touching  Meg's  neck,  were  wet. 
The  wildness  of  autumn  —  the  earth's  cry  over 
her  new-dead  and  her  new-born  —  wrapped 
mother  and  child  in  strange  spaces  of  sound  and 
night.  Suddenly  Meg  went  slower. 


52  PAY  ENVELOPES 

Her  heart  began  to  beat  high.  If  Tom  were 
home  he  might  leap  out  at  her  from  the  darkness, 
strike  her  down. 

"  But  it  ain't  that,"  she  muttered,  "  it's  the  baby 
—  like  as  not  he'd  strike  her  —  the  brute !  " 

Brute !  Yes,  a  big  man.  She  shivered,  a  glor 
ious  apprehension  going  through  her. 

A  little  dirt  road  ran  off  the  street  into  the  black 
night.  Meg  slowly  followed  it  for  several  hun 
dred  feet.  Blackness  swallowed  her.  She  drew 
the  child  closer  and  closer,  glad  of  its  silent  com 
panionship.  It  was  living,  and  it  was  good  to 
have  life  near  one  in  such  a  night. 

Finally  she  stopped,  and  felt  out,  groping  here 
and  there.  Her  hand  struck  the  wet  boards  of  a 
fence.  She  felt  along  it  to  an  open  space,  set  a 
hesitant  foot  within,  and  slid  foot  after  foot  down 
a  broken  path.  Feeling  out  at  her  left,  her  hand 
touched  the  side  of  a  house.  She  had  a  sudden 
fear  of  the  night.  Tom  might  be  crouched  in  the 
black  kitchen  —  but  the  night  seemed  more  ter 
rible. 

Her  hand  suddenly  shot  out  into  space.  She 
turned,  took  a  step  up,  onto  a  little  platform,  and 
then  stopped  against  a  door.  She  was  breathless, 
though  smiling.  The  baby  did  not  stir;  there  was 
no  sound  save  the  wild  rattle  of  the  rain. 

"  All  right,  Tom,"  she  said  aloud,  "  all  right!  " 

She  turned  the  knob,  and  pushed  in  backward, 
shielding  the  child.  Then  suddenly  she  slammed 


MEG  53 

the  door  on  the  night,  and  stood  trembling,  listen 
ing,  straining  her  eyes.  The  hush  of  the  house, 
the  warm  home-hush,  smote  her  ears  like  a  great 
noise. 

"Tom!"  she  called. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  If  you  strike  me,"  she  said  slowly,  "  all  right 
—  but  wait  till  I  put  Annie  down !  Wait  —  an' 
if  you're  a  man !  " 

No  one  answered. 

She  suppressed  a  cry,  and  started  over  the  bare, 
creaking  floor,  edging  from  left  to  right  as  if  she 
expected  a  blow.  She  came  against  a  chair,  the 
sudden  noise  shocking  her.  She  bumped  against 
a  table.  Then,  listening  a  moment,  she  heard  the 
alarm-clock  throbbing  thickly. 

Again  she  smiled,  started  forward,  found  a 
doorway,  went  through,  put  the  child  down  into 
a  little  crib,  and  fled  back  to  the  kitchen  with  an 
unreasoning  fear.  She  was  wild  to  get  a  match. 
Her  hand  slapped  over  the  wall.  She  found  the 
box.  She  kept  looking  back  from  right  to  left 
as  she  struck  a  match  on  the  stove.  It  spurted 
blue;  the  sulphur  fume  made  her  gasp;  and  then 
the  flame  burst  golden. 

Holding  the  tiny  flame  out,  she  looked  about 
quickly.  No  one  was  there  in  the  jumping  shad 
ows.  She  went  to  the  table,  lifted  the  chimney 
from  a  lamp,  lit  the  wick,  and  replaced  the  chim 
ney.  The  glow  grew  and  grew. 


54  PAY  ENVELOPES 

Then  swiftly  she  pulled  down  the  shades  of  the 
two  windows,  picked  up  the  lamp  and  carried  it 
into  the  bedroom.  There,  too,  she  pulled  down 
the  shades.  There  was  no  one  in  the  house  save 
herself  and  the  baby.  For  a  space  she  brooded 
over  the  crib.  How  soundly  the  little  one  slept! 
A  glory  stole  into  Meg's  face.  She  laughed 
softly. 

"  Your  mother's  no  good,  Annie,"  she  mur 
mured.  "  As  if  I  could  be  scared  with  you 
around!  " 

She  turned  and  softly  carried  the  lamp  back 
to  the  kitchen,  setting  it  on  the  bare  center-table 
and  turning  up  the  wick.  The  rich  golden  glow 
sphered  out,  fading  toward  the  shadowy  walls, 
and  in  the  glow  Meg  seemed  beautiful,  even  grace 
ful,  with  hair  burned  to  gold,  gray  eyes  sparkling, 
face  strong  in  relief. 

This  little  kitchen  was  a  bare  place.  A  cup 
board  and  ice-box  stood  against  one  wall,  windows 
and  door  filled  another,  the  stove  a  third,  and  a 
broken  table  leaned  against  the  fourth.  The 
plastering  of  the  walls  and  ceiling  was  broken  in 
many  places,  patches  fallen  out  showing  the  ribs 
of  the  house.  There  were  a  few  rough  chairs 
and  an  old  arm-rocker  with  a  faded  pink  pillow 
deep-sunk  in  it. 

Meg,  wet  as  she  was,  sat  down  in  this  rocker, 
folded  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  let  her  head  rest 
back. 


MEG  55 

She  sighed  deeply.  It  was  sweet  after  the 
roaring  day  in  the  mill,  the  ker-rack-ity-clang  of 
the  braid  machines,  the  dance  of  the  flashing  bob 
bins,  the  patient  threading  of  needles,  the  dust  and 
bad  steamy  air,  and,  worse  yet,  the  plunge  with 
her  child  through  the  blackness  —  it  was  sweet, 
overpoweringly  sweet,  to  have  this  moment  of 
relaxing. 

The  windows  rattled;  the  door  shook;  the  floor 
creaked.  The  wild  storm  whirled  about  the  little 
house  like  a  sea  tossing  a  raft.  But  in  the  sealed 
heart  of  the  autumn  storm  burned  a  lamp  and 
beside  it  sat  a  silent  woman  and  near  her  slept  her 
child.  It  was  a  moment  of  drowsy  glory. 

But  suddenly  she  heard  the  door  shake.  If  it 
was  Tom!  She  sat  forward,  tense  with  expect 
ancy.  No  one  entered. 

Tom!  She  gripped  the  arms  of  the  chair;  she 
sat  head  low.  She  began  to  think  sharply,  clearly. 
What  should  she  do?  How  should  she  act? 
Was  she  to  be  the  weak  woman,  the  every-day 
woman,  the  woman  for  whom  she  had  a  bitter 
contempt?  What  right  had  the  brute  in  her 
home? 

The  brute!  Yes,  a  big,  big  man!  He  used 
to  be  machinist  at  the  factory,  a  good  job,  twenty 
a  week.  He  was  a  sight  in  blue  greasy  overalls, 
bending  over  broken  machinery,  working  with  big 
tools.  His  head  was  tousled  and  brown,  his  face 
many-grooved,  his  eyes  black.  He  had  a  big 


56  PAY  ENVELOPES 

black  mustache.  He  was  rough  and  tender  — 
well  loved  among  men,  shy  of  women. 

Meg  met  him  in  the  factory.  The  gipsy  in  her 
had  sent  her  from  England  to  New  York.  There 
she  had  been  a  servant,  until  the  springtide  called 
her.  From  that  time  on  she  had  wandered  from 
town  to  town  —  a  woman  alone,  but  fearless,  self- 
reliant,  daring.  She  had  rolled  stogies  in  Pitts 
burgh,  she  had  worked  in  the  hat  factories  of 
Yonkers,  in  the  silk  mills  of  Paterson.  Finally 
she  came  to  the  braid  factory  in  this  New  Jersey 
village. 

Tom  once  repaired  her  machine.  The  woman 
and  man  looked  each  other  over  curiously. 
After  that  he  kept  near  when  he  could,  prolong 
ing  all  the  jobs  in  her  neighborhood.  Once  at 
closing  time  he  joined  her  under  the  arc-light. 

"  I  guess  I'll  walk  with  you  a  stretch,"  he  mut 
tered  huskily. 

They  walked  in  silence.  After  that  he  accom 
panied  her  morning  and  night,  until  one  evening 
—  yes,  autumn,  wild  wind  blowing  —  just  such  a 
night  as  this,  only  no  rain  —  he  paused  in  the 
bunch  of  pines.  The  treetops  were  singing  above 
them,  the  needles  flying  in  showers. 

"Meg!" 

She  stopped,  her  heart  nearly  breaking.  He 
suddenly  gripped  her  two  arms  and  drew  her 
fiercely  near. 

"Will  you?" 


MEG  57 

"  I  will,  Tom,"  she  breathed. 

He  almost  crushed  her  in  his  arms.  The  wild 
glory  of  that  moment  —  the  woman  and  man  new 
born  in  marriage  in  the  rough  theater  of  the  dying 
world,  the  run-wild  earth,  had  filled  them  with 
the  inexpressible.  They  were  alive  at  last;  laugh 
ing,  talking,  touching  each  other;  they  had  their 
brief  glimpse  of  the  Romance  that  hurls  the  suns; 
they  seemed  on  the  threshold  o'f  a  starry  existence, 
remote  from  bread-sweat  and  the  dust  of  the  hu 
man  road. 

This  lasted  a  little  way  into  their  marriage. 
Lasted  until  the  strike  threw  Tom  out  of  work. 
There  was  a  brief  period  that  winter  when  the 
workers  literally  starved.  Tom's  big  body  could 
not  stand  it.  He  began  to  make  trouble.  He 
quarreled  with  Meg.  She  fought  bravely,  until 
he  cursed  her.  Then  she  ordered  him  out  of  the 
house. 

From  that  time  on  he  began  to  be  a  heavy 
drinker,  and  when  the  strike  was  over,  and  there 
were  wages  again,  he  blew  in  the  most  of  his 
money  on  Saturday  night  carouses.  One  Sunday 
morning  he  came  home  at  three,  dragged  Meg  out 
of  bed  and  beat  her. 

Against  this  outrage,  this  breaking  in  on  the 
sacredness  of  her  womanhood,  Meg  rebelled  with 
fury.  She  defended  herself  with  a  rolling  pin. 

After  that  the  marriage  was  shattered.  They 
were  merely  two  persons  living  under  one  roof, 


58  PAY  ENVELOPES 

the  woman  quiet,  active,  cold,  the  man  silent  and 
sullen.  Once  in  a  while  he  would  sit  looking  at 
her,  his  face  struggling  as  if  he  were  about  to 
speak  —  to  release  his  remorse,  to  throw  himself 
on  her  mercy  —  but  he  was  not  a  man  of  wrords. 
Nor  did  Meg  help  him. 

He  became  thoroughly  a  brute.  He  lost  his 
job;  he  loafed  about  the  saloon;  he  begged  for 
drink-money.  When  he  came  home  he  threatened 
to  beat  u  his  woman."  But  she  merely  said 
sharply : 

"  Remember,  there's  a  child  comin'.  If  you 
strike  me,  so  help  me  God,  I'll  have  you  in  jail." 

And  then  one  terrible  night  he  beat  her  again, 
and  the  child  was  born.  Meg  had  fled  to  Mrs. 
Heney's  house.  Her  first  act  was  to  send  for  the 
police.  They  found  Tom  in  his  kitchen,  doubled 
up  in  a  chair,  eyes  glazed,  hair  wild,  clothes  dis 
heveled.  He  seemed  dazed.  They  dragged  him 
off  to  the  lock-up,  and  waited  for  the  wife  to  ap 
pear  against  him. 

She  never  forgot  the  scene  in  the  blue-walled 
courtroom,  the  magistrate  with  his  green-shaded 
eyes  under  the  gas-light,  the  crowd  of  policemen, 
women  and  hangers-on,  the  special  officer  who 
handed  Tom  up  to  the  Judge.  She  trembled  and 
did  not  look  at  her  husband,  but  he  whispered  in 
her  ears : 

"Don't  doit,  Meg!" 

This   is  the   moment  when   most  women    fail. 


MEG  59 

They  give  in  for  their  child's  sake,  or  their  man's 
sake,  or  love's  sake.  But  Meg  was  a  free  woman. 
She  spoke  against  him. 

"  Three  months,"  said  the  Judge. 

Meg,  being  very  weak,  sobbed  a  little.  Tom 
cursed. 

"  Wait  till  I  get  out,  you  — ,"  he  whispered, 
"  I'll  fix  yer !  "  He  leaned  very  near.  "  /'//  kill 
you!" 

The  wife-beater  was  dragged  away. 

And  then  life  began  anew  for  Meg.  She  took 
her  old  job  again  in  the  factory,  and  she  farmed 
the  baby  out  to  Mrs.  Heney  during  the  day. 

It  was  a  strange  three  months.  She  began  to 
understand  other  women.  The  lovely  tenderness 
of  motherhood  filled  her  heart.  Her  evenings  and 
early  mornings  were  wonderful.  She  had  not 
dreamed  that  a  tiny  baby,  a  little  helpless  waif 
tossed  up  out  of  the  night,  could  so  enslave  the 
body  and  soul.  So  many  things  that  had  mattered 
before  now  mattered  not  at  all.  She  felt  no  call 
of  far  cities  and  strange  roads;  she  did  not  care 
whether  she  was  masterful  or  not.  Her  function 
was  to  give  herself  to  another,  to  serve,  to  sacrifice, 
and  her  pay  was  in  miracles,  miracles  of  cooing 
baby-cries,  faint,  scarce-felt  brushing  of  baby- 
fingers,  wonderful  opening  of  eyes  sweeter  than 
dawn,  feel  of  a  helpless  clinging  body  in  one's 
arms,  drawn  so  close,  hugged  so  tight,  caressed 
and  mumbled  over,  soothed  and  kissed.  It  is 


60  PAY  ENVELOPES 

months  after  the  baby  is  born  before  the  woman 
becomes  a  real  mother,  it  is  a  day-to-day  unfolding, 
an  opening  of  doors  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
mysteries  and  miracles  of  life.  Meg  had  been  go 
ing  through  these  doorways.  To-night  she  was  a 
mother  in  the  larger  sense.  What  are  men  but 
children?  What  was  Tom  but  a  child?  Yes,  she 
understood  other  women  now. 

There  was  that  night  when  Tom  had  gazed 
at  her,  when  he  seemed  about  to  release  his  re 
morse  —  if  she  had  only  been  a  little  motherly 
then!  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  arose  from  the  rocker.  She  was 
chilly  now,  her  wet  clothes  clinging  to  her.  She 
listened  intently,  though  without  looking,  her  eyes 
musing  dreamily.  Wild  rain  was  beating  against 
the  windows;  the  crazy  little  house  was  musical 
with  the  storm;  the  lamplight  fell  dimly  over  the 
shadowy  walls.  Suddenly  through  Meg's  heart 
went  the  awful  passion  of  autumn,  the  glory  of 
treetops  like  flying  hair  in  the  wind,  the  wild  light 
in  the  woods,  the  meadows  shaking  with  wild- 
flowers,  the  earth's  heaven-rolling  psalm  of  death 
—  death,  widespread,  driving  men  into  houses, 
driving  men  home.  On  such  a  night  man  in  his 
house  feels  like  the  first  human  who  dug  out  a  cave 
and  built  a  fire,  and  found  a  sweet  nook  in  the 
storm,  a  warm  hush  in  the  wilderness,  a  shelter  of 
love. 

It  was  just  such  a  night,  though  rainless,  that 


MEG  61 

Tom  had  drawn  her  close  under  the  pines  and 
said,  "  Meg  —  will  you?  "  The  wild  glory  of 
that  moment  swept  over  her  with  every  wail  of  the 
wind. 

"  And  Annie,"  she  muttered,  clenching  her  fists, 
"  Annie's  his'n  as  well  as  mine.  He's  Annie's  fa 
ther —  ain't  he?  " 

She  looked  about  the  room.  She  heard  the 
storm.  She  realized  how  lonely  she  was  —  not  a 
soul  to  talk  to  —  no  one  even  to  look  at!  She 
was  swallowed  in  the  night,  and  far,  far  from  all 
living  men  and  women.  She  looked  at  the  door 
time  and  again.  At  any  moment  he  might  open  it. 

What  was  she  to  do  then?  Be  like  other 
women  ? 

And  then  the  great  fact  of  the  night,  bringing 
back  that  other  autumn  night,  and  the  great  fact 
of  her  motherhood,  and  the  great  fact  of  Tom's 
return,  began  to  work  in  her  heart.  She  suddenly 
felt  all  woman  again.  Here  was  the  home  and 
yet  no  home  —  she  wanted  a  man,  she  wanted 
love.  Passionately  she  longed  for  love  on  this 
home-night,  passionately  she  longed  for  a  mascu 
line  presence  near,  warmth  of  cheek  and  hand, 
rough  realness  of  a  man's  voice,  someone  moving 
about  the  room,  someone's  tread  in  the  other 
room  —  And  how  she  would  serve  him !  She 
would  give  him  supper,  make  him  eat, —  her  man 
should  not  go  hungry ! 

A    brute  ?     Yes  —  but    she    wanted    a    brute ! 


62  PAY  ENVELOPES 

She  wanted  a  man!  Someone  to  share  the  wild 
night  with,  someone  to  stand  between  her  and  the 
storm,  someone  to  give  her  her  child  for  all  day 
long,  someone  to  serve,  to  love,  to  mother. 

;<  Why,  Tom's  a  child,"  she  murmured,  her 
eyes  filling.  "  Why  didn't  I  know  that  before? 
He  could  be  handled  as  easy  as  —  that!  " 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on,  tremendous  pride  rising  in 
her  voice,  "  but  he's  a  man,  too !  How  he  crushed 
me  under  the  pines !  Strong  arms  —  big  heart !  " 

She  began  excusing  everything,  forgiving,  for 
getting  all.  Women  must  have  men,  children 
must  have  fathers  as  well  as  mothers. 

And  now  if  he  really  were  coming  back  to  try 
to  kill  her  —  She  smiled  bravely.  Then  she  sat 
down  suddenly,  a  strange  stir  about  her  eyes,  a 
breaking  down  about  her  heart,  a  mist,  and  wild, 
uncontrollable  sobs.  She  was  sobbing  for  the 
glory  gone,  the  glory  that  began  that  night  under 
the  pines.  Oh,  the  pity  of  it!  Yes,  she  was  all 
woman  after  all  —  motherhood  had  melted  her 
down  to  the  common  mass,  she  was  just  a  woman 
in  a  world  of  women. 

And  then  again  she  smiled  bravely.  She  arose, 
brushing  off  the  tears. 

"  I'll  get  him  supper  anyway!  "  she  muttered. 

She  was  very  busy  at  once.  She  opened  the 
little  ice-box  and  drew  out  some  sliced  bacon  and 
some  boiled  potatoes.  These  she  set  on  the  table. 
Then  quickly  she  built  a  fire  in  the  stove,  a  paper 


MEG  63 

and  wood  fire  that  sent  a  sweet,  autumny  smell  of 
burning  through  the  room.  The  potatoes  were 
sliced  up,  put  in  a  pan  with  the  bacon,  and  she 
fried  them  together. 

"  He  can  do  as  he  likes,"  she  murmured,  "  only 
—  he's  got  to  speak  first." 

She  remembered  how  he  loved  to  hear  her  sing 
"  Coming  Through  the  Rye."  It  was  hard  to 
start,  to  lift  her  voice  in  the  silence,  but  at  last  it 
came,  quaintly,  brokenly,  sweetly : 

"  When  a  body  meets  a  body 

Coming  through  the  rye " 

She  looked  glorious  at  the  moment.  She  was 
bending  over  the  stove,  turning  the  bacon  with  a 
fork,  her  body  graceful,  her  head  strongly  poised, 
her  face  sweet  with  singing,  sweet  with  shining 
gray  eyes.  And  the  little  house  was  shaken  in  the 
teeth  of  the  storm,  the  rain  beat  on  the  streaming 
panes,  the  floor  creaked,  the  alarm-clock  throbbed, 
and  the  woman  sang. 

She  stopped  suddenly.  She  turned,  and  went 
white.  Her  fork  was  uplifted.  It  began  to 
tremble  in  her  hand.  Her  face  looked  scared, 
eyes  big,  lips  slightly  parted.  But  the  lamplight 
flooding  her,  softened  her  countenance  with  a 
golden  glory. 

Slowly  the  door  opened.  The  woman  was 
alone,  unprotected,  the  night  was  loud.  She  felt 


64  PAY  ENVELOPES 

fear,  terrible  fear  for  a  moment.  A  large  man 
came  in.  A  soft  slouch  hat  was  well  down  over 
his  eyes,  his  rough  clothes  were  dripping  water. 
He  closed  the  door  hard  behind  him.  He  looked 
about  the  room,  hardly  noticing  Meg.  Then 
slowly  he  took  off  his  hat,  shook  off  its  water  on 
the  floor  and  hung  it  over  a  chair.  The  floor 
creaked  loudly  under  his  weight.  Without  a  word 
he  stepped  to  the  table  and  sat  down  on  a  chair. 

Meg  gazed  at  him.  She  was  blinded  a  moment 
with  tears.  Then  she  went  softly  to  the  cup 
board,  took  down  a  plate,  filled  it  with  bacon  and 
potatoes,  and  set  it  gently  before  the  man.  She 
went  back  to  the  stove  and  pretended  to  be  busy. 

The  man  picked  up  knife  and  fork.  But  he  did 
not  eat.  He  was  staring  at  Meg.  Several  times 
he  opened  his  mouth  to  speak.  But  he  said  noth 
ing. 

The  storm  grew  louder  than  ever,  lashing  the 
house  with  rain.  The  two  were  alone  in  the 
whole  world  —  shut  deep  in  with  a  lamp  in  a  tiny 
house. 

The  man  opened  his  mouth  again.  His  voice 
suddenly  rose,  false,  strange,  unnatural. 

"  Meg,—  how's  the  kid?" 

She  turned,  and  spoke  in  a  rich,  low  voice : 

"  Want  to  see  her?" 

"  Yes." 

She  came  over  all  in  a  tremble,  picked  up  the 
lamp  and  led  the  way.  The  man  arose  clumsily 


'Meg,  wet  as  she  was,  sat  down  in  this  rocker,  folded  her  hands 
in  her  lap,  and  let  her  head  rest  back" 


MEG  65 

and  followed  her,  trying  not  to  make  a  noise.  He 
edged  close  to  Meg  at  the  crib  and  looked  down. 
Neither  spoke.  But  Meg  heard  the  man  breath 
ing  huskily.  The  lamp  shook  in  her  fingers  and 
she  had  to  grip  it  with  both  hands. 

Then  she  turned  and  went  back  and  set  the  lamp 
down  again.  She  felt  weak,  and  leaned  heavily 
on  the  table.  The  man  came  close  to  her. 

"  Meg!  " 

"Tom!"     But  she  did  not  stir. 

"  Meg!     Will  you?     Just  once  more?  " 

"  Yes,  Tom!" 

There  was  a  deep  silence.  The  alarm-clock 
throbbed,  the  storm  wrapped  them.  Suddenly 
Meg  turned. 

"  She's  ours,  Tom!" 

He  gripped  both  her  hands;  he  pulled  her 
fiercely,  fiercely  close: 

"God!  God!"  he  cried,  "but  I  want  you! 
You're  my  wife !  My  own  wife!  " 


SATURDAY  NIGHT 


SATURDAY  NIGHT 

a  Saturday  night  the  lights  of  Third  Avenue 
have  under  them  thick  black  tides  of  humans. 
The  overhead  elevated  railroad  soaks  with  the 
glamour  that  shades  in  and  out  its  iron  pillars  — 
now  and  then  a  glow  of  gold  from  the  running 
trolley  car  —  now  and  then  the  long  harnessed 
Milky  Way  of  the  trains  above.  Flames  are  on 
pushcarts  and  fruitstands  —  chestnut  pans  at  the 
corners  curl  a  smoke  of  incense  through  ruddy  fire 
—  and  the  continuous  plate  glass  of  the  stores 
sheds  a  radiance  down  the  street.  And  in  the 
lights  of  Third  Avenue  faces  and  forms  stand  out 
bathed  in  gold  and  blue  and  orange. 

There  has  been  an  exodus  of  washwomen  and 
factory  girls  from  the  Eastern  tenements;  a  migra 
tion  of  clerks'  wives  and  frugal  housekeepers  from 
the  Western  flats ;  the  staring  baby  is  here ;  the  cor 
ner  boys;  the  saloon-dwellers;  the  workers.  And 
this  is  Lover's  Lane. 

There  is  no  such  happiness  as  Saturday  night 
happiness.  The  week's  work  is  done;  the  wages 
are  drawn;  the  race  has  returned  to  Eden,  where 
there  are  sights  and  sounds  and  things  to  buy. 
There  is  no  care  for  the  morrow;  one  may  feast 


yo  PAY  ENVELOPES 

and  spend  and  sleep.  Hence,  the  breezy  holiday 
spirit  along  the  avenue.  Hence,  an  Enchanted 
People  —  beautiful  despite  their  exteriors  —  for 
what  is  beautiful  in  human  face  save  light  of  love 
and  warmth  for  our  fellows  and  the  smile  of  the 
task  accomplished? 

A  hundred  feet  East  of  Third  Avenue,  on 
Eighty-third  Street,  there's  a  dusty  tenement  whose 
front  windows  are  forever  shut.  The  ground- 
floor  window  has  a  small  sign  backed  by  a  squalid 
lace  curtain.  An  electric  street  light  with  blue  un 
certain  rays  picks  out  the  letters  of  the  sign  —  two 
words : 

BREITMANN 

Dressmaking 

Behind  that  window  is  a  small  parlor  smothered 
with  years  of  stale  air  and  the  smell  of  steamed 
garments  and  two  poor  human  bodies.  A  sew 
ing  machine  stands  in  one  corner;  a  dressmaker's 
model  in  another.  The  furniture  is  old  and 
threadbare;  the  old  carpet  worn  through;  the  big 
crayons  on  the  wall  date  back  to  Darkest  America. 
And  the  room  is  really  a  larger  incarnation  of  the 
souls  that  dwell  in  it.  Their  ordinary  incarnation 
—  their  human  flesh  and  clothes  —  is  the  room  on 
a  small  scale.  Old  Mrs.  Breitmann  is  so  flabby, 
dusty,  threadbare  that  there  are  not  even  deep  lines 
in  her  sallow  puffed  face.  She  is  a  soft  bundle  of 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  71 

antiquity  and  speaks  in  a  bygone  whisper.  And 
her  daughter  of  forty  —  her  maiden  daughter  — 
is  a  sad  replica  of  the  mother  —  flabby,  shabby, 
dim.  Her  faded  blue  eyes  are  blurs  on  her  pale 
face  —  her  lips  have  lost  their  color ;  her  fat  hands 
seem  made  of  dry  dust. 

Mother  and  daughter  sit  quietly  together  and 
sew  for  a  pittance,  wringing  just  enough  money 
out  of  ill-made  clothes  to  pay  rent  and  the  trades 
people.  They  drink  tea,  and  eat  like  manless 
women  —  a  canary's  diet.  They  speak  in  whis 
pers  to  one  another  when  it  is  necessary,  and  it  is 
not  often  necessary. 

But  on  a  crisp  Saturday  night  in  December,  Lil- 
ith  Breitmann,  the  daughter,  was  in  a  state  of  un 
rest  she  had  not  known  for  years.  For  years  she 
had  sat  sewing  as  if  time  were  not  —  yet  time  was, 
and  in  the  silence  of  the  room  time  had  stolen  from 
her  much  that  was  glory  and  dream  and  the  salt  of 
life.  It  had  filched  her  youth  from  her,  and  a 
sweet  girlish  beauty,  and  ambition,  and  hopes.  It 
had  left  a  garment  on  her  stuck  full  of  pins  and 
threaded  needles.  It  had  added  a  skill  to  her  fin 
gers  and  a  set  of  diagrams  to  her  brain.  But  life 
—  rich,  warm,  struggling  life  —  where  was  it? 
Third  Avenue  roared  by  with  glowing  crowds. 
Life  was  there.  Why  had  she  been  born  to  sit 
aside  and  crumble  to  Nothingness,  without  par 
taking  of  the  radiance,  the  terror  and  the  joy? 

Something  of  the  Third  Avenue  mood  swept 


72  PAY  ENVELOPES 

Lilith  on  this  crisp  December  night.  It  was  the 
call  of  the  wild.  But  for  a  full  hour  she  sat  on 
her  hard  chair  sewing  at  the  first  party  dress  of  a 
young  girl  on  Lexington  Avenue.  Now  and  then 
she  timidly  glanced  at  the  dusty  mother  who  bent 
her  near-sighted  eyes  close  to  a  sleeve  inside-out. 
The  mother  took  no  notice,  and  Lilith  returned  her 
fingers  and  eyes  to  the  party  dress.  Bitterly  she 
thought  of  the  young  girl,  the  joy,  the  dance,  the 
lights,  and  revolt  grew  apace. 

She  had  looked  at  her  mother  thirty  times  in  the 
hour.  Now  at  last,  with  heart  beating  fast,  she 
let  a  few  words  venture  forth. 

"  It's  —  a  nice  night,  /  think"  she  whispered. 

"  Ya,"  said  the  mother. 

There  was  a  silence  stitched  together  by  the 
mother's  needle. 

Again  Lilith  spoke : 

"I  —  I  think  it  would  be  nice  —  to  go  out  to 
night." 

Her  mother  stopped  sewing  and  looked  at  her : 

"Why?" 

Why?  Lilith  was  struck  dumb,  and  swallowed 
hard.  The  mother  went  on  sewing,  much  per 
turbed.  She  sensed  the  coming  of  a  revolt  that 
should  break  her  life  to  bits. 

Lilith's  cheeks  took  an  unusual  color,  her  dim 
eyes  began  to  show  life.  She  stumbled  to  her 
feet,  half-choking. 

"I  —  I'm  going  out,"  she  breathed. 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  73 

The  mother  looked  at  her,  frozen  with  terror. 
Her  jaw  hung.  At  last  she  mumbled: 

"  Are  you  crazy?  " 

Lilith  had  never  crossed  her,  and  now  at  forty 
the  girl  was  asserting  herself!  This  was  the  be 
ginning  of  the  end. 

But  while  the  mother  sat  staring  and  mumbling, 
Lilith  unsteadily  performed  the  sacred  rites  of 
preparation  for  Romance.  She  pulled  the  pins 
and  needles  from  her  woolen  waist.  She  got  the 
little  brush  they  used  for  customers,  and  turned  it 
on  herself.  She  put  on  a  tawdry  antique  straw 
hat,  shoddy  with  a  bird's-wing  and  a  bunch  of  rib 
bon  —  wrapped  herself  in  a  Red  Ridinghood  cape 
—  and  finally,  the  last  terrible  touch  —  drew  from 
her  dollar  hoard  twenty  cents  in  nickels  and  pen 
nies. 

Through  all  this  ritual  there  was  no  word  be 
tween  mother  and  daughter.  The  silence  of  the 
years  had  atrophied  their  power  to  converse.  But 
it  was  an  awful  silence  —  a  silence  shrill  with  defi 
ance  on  the  daughter's  part,  with  despair  and  ter 
ror  on  the  mother's  part. 

So  when  Lilith  said  —  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
like  a  moving  picture  — "  I'm  —  going"  the 
mother  could  only  mutter:  "Unsinn!  unsinn!" 
(Nonsense!) 

And  could  not  believe  her  eyes  when  the  daugh 
ter  opened  the  door,  staggered  through,  and  shut 
herself  away  in  the  Unknown,  the  Mystery. 


74  PAY  ENVELOPES 

Eighty-third  Street,  dark,  deep,  gloomy,  was  an 
underground  cavern  with  a  secret  fire-guarded 
portal  to  the  West  —  the  portal  of  Elysian  fields. 
For  looking  up  the  dark  street,  Lilith  saw  the 
golden  glow  of  Third  Avenue.  Thither  she  sped, 
almost  tripping  along,  the  blood  hot  about  her 
ears  and  singing  in  her  pulses. 

In  another  moment  she  was  in  the  City  of  the 
Enchanted,  she  herself  one  of  the  Enchanted  Peo 
ple.  The  lights,  the  tides  of  men  and  women, 
the  sights,  the  lustrous  leather  of  shoes  in  the  bril 
liant  show  window,  the  glamour  of  high-heaped 
fruit  on  the  stands,  the  keen  air,  the  buoyancy  and 
sparkle  of  the  Holiday  —  all  these  flooded 
through  her,  until  she  was  transfigured.  It  was  a 
new  birth  into  a  new  world.  She  had  sloughed  off 
her  skin  and  clothes,  and  was  a  happy  young  girl  in 
Lover's  Lane.  But  where  was  he? 

He!  Tears  gathered  to  her  eyes,  and  the 
breath  of  old  romance  blew  back  through  the  ruins 
of  her  heart.  Well  enough  she  knew  where  he 
was.  Little  had  she  cared  this  last  year,  after  the 
janitor's  crippled  daughter  had  told  her.  But  to 
night? 

There's  a  yellow-brick  Public  School  on  Seventy- 
ninth  Street  that  is  as  old  as  Yorkville.  The 
sweet-faced  daughter  of  the  dressmaker  went 
there,  books  on  her  arm,  lunch  in  her  coat-pocket, 
and  shyness  and  blushes  on  her  cheeks.  Henry 
Lutz  went  there,  too.  He  was  a  handsome,  black- 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  75 

haired,  black-eyed  boy  —  with  a  native  talent  for 
music.  He  could  pull  song  from  a  Jew's  harp,  a 
harmonica,  a  violin  or  a  piano.  He  was  a  wild 
fellow ;  she,  a  timid  negative  girl.  He  carried  her 
books  at  times;  he  came  around  at  twilight,  when, 
the  boys  weren't  looking,  and  wrung  love-lyrics 
from  his  lute;  that  is,  Lilith  sat  on  the  stoop,  and 
Henry  sat  a  step  above  and  played  on  the  harmon 
ica.  They  were  undeniably  happy  —  head  over 
heels  in  love.  They  were  shy  and  full  of  blushes. 
They  gave  each  other  tokens.  They  took  secret 
vows.  Henry  next  went  to  Harvard  —  for 
Henry  dwelt  West  of  Third  Avenue.  But  he  kept 
on  writing,  and  thrice  there  were  secret,  sa 
cred  meetings  —  kisses,  embraces,  vows  —  stolen 
nights.  And  then  —  silence. 

The  janitor's  crippled  daughter  —  who  was 
nearly  as  old  as  Lilith  —  had  once  shared  her  se 
crets.  Hence,  the  janitor's  daughter  remembered 
the  name  of  Henry  Lutz  when  she  heard  it.  And 
with  the  name  came  a  short  but  sufficient  history. 
The  wild  boy  had  been  expelled  from  college;  he 
had  squandered  family  money,  till  he  was  also  ex 
pelled  from  home;  he  had  walked  year  by  year 
down  the  steps  into  the  Underworld  —  the  stair 
way  of  the  Tenderloin.  He  had  lost  his  friends; 
his  character  had  crumbled  away;  and  last,  he  be 
came  a  semi-vagrant,  haunting  Bowery  dives.  He 
did  anything  for  a  living  —  in  ways  uncertain  and 
unsavory.  There  had  been  a  dramatic  moment 


76  PAY  ENVELOPES 

on  an  "  el "  train  late  at  night  when  he  sprawled 
drunk  on  one  side,  and  begged  alms  from  some 
men  opposite. 

"  I'm  a  Harvard  man,"  he  had  hiccoughed. 
"  Take  my  oath  I  am.  Listen/'  he  rolled  out 
grandly,  "  Arma  virumque  cano;  Troia  qm  prim 
us  ab  orls  —  but  I'm  on  the  road  to  ruin  — "  he 
waved  his  hand  drunkenly,  "  on  the  road  to  ruin !  " 

One  of  his  old  friends  sat  opposite. 

The  shock  had  driven  him  into  a  better  way  of 
earning  a  living.  And  now  —  he  was  playing 
the  piano  at  the  Nickel  Theatre  on  Eighty-fourth 
Street.  This  was  the  sensational  news  the  jani 
tor's  daughter  had  conveyed  to  Lilith.  And  Lil- 
ith  —  crumbling  to  dust  under  the  label  of  u  Breit- 
mann,  Dressmaking  " —  had  not  cared.  But  to 
night  ? 

She  saw  his  black  hair  and  his  black  eyes  again; 
a  music  stole  from  the  dead  harmonica;  she 
burned  again  with  the  kiss;  a  boy's  arms  were 
about  her  —  and  she,  was  she  not  a  young  girl 
again  in  Lover's  Lane?  Suddenly  she  loved  all 
faces  —  she  loved  this  waddling  fat  woman  who 
carried  a  baby  in  her  arms  —  she  loved  this  pale 
clerk  and  his  anemic  wife.  She  was  drenched  with 
the  very  spirit  of  life;  she  caught  the  zest  of  the 
bargain  in  the  fish-market  as  she  passed;  she 
paused  at  windows  to  feast  her  eyes  on  brilliant 
things.  She  crossed  Eighty-fourth  Street,  almost 
dancing,  tripping  along  with  girlish  resiliency.  It 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  77 

seemed  to  her  as  if  he  were  waiting  for  her;  she 
would  meet  him  soon  —  look  into  his  dark  eyes, 
and  listen  to  the  music  of  his  voice  as  he  remem 
bered  his  vows.  And  what  else?  Might  there 
be  a  kiss? 

Her  blood  sang  through  her;  she  was  breath 
less  with  expectancy.  Life  again  was  romance 
and  mystery  —  unfathomable,  star-reaching,  and 
whirled  with  song.  And  then,  suddenly,  she 
stopped  still  —  her  hand  at  her  heart.  She  was 
thrilled  so  that  she  felt  faint  with  dizzy  happi 
ness. 

Two  milky  globes  suspended  on  wires  flooded 
the  sidewalk  with  a  copper-colored  intense  light 
—  a  light  like  compressed  sunlight  —  blinding, 
terrific.  Each  person  standing  in  it  was  a  living 
statue,  deeply  shaded,  clearly  chiseled.  Beneath 
it  in  a  broad  recess  the  width  of  the  building  was 
a  little  glass  "  window  "  where  a  woman  sat  with 
a  roll  of  tickets.  On  either  side  were  doors. 
The  ground  was  paved  with  tiny  tiles  with  the  in 
wrought  word  "  Nicoland,"  and  in  front  were 
gorgeous  posters. 

Lilith,  thrilling  through  and  through,  read  the 
posters  and  looked  at  their  pictures.  One  was 
"The  Actor's  Wife  — a  Tale  of  Love,  Kidnap 
ing  and  Unfaithfulness";  another  was,  "  Lost  in 
the  Desert."  But  Lilith  did  not  understand  these. 
She  was  thinking  of  the  pianist  inside.  Could  she 
dare  to  go  in  ?  Could  she  dare  to  spend  five  cents 


78  PAY  ENVELOPES 

for  such  a  thing?  What  would  her  mother  say? 
Five  cents  for  the  theater !  And  moving  pictures ! 
And  he  —  at  the  piano ! 

She  would  sit  in  the  dark  and  listen  to  him. 
Truly  this  was  the  great  night  of  her  life  —  the 
Dream-Night.  She  was  in  the  Dream-World; 
she  was  a  Dream- Person  —  why  should  she  not 
dream  her  fill?  What  was  five  cents  as  against 
Romance  and  Love? 

She  tinkled  her  nickel  in  at  the  window,  the 
sharp-faced  woman  snipped  off  a  ticket,  a  uni 
formed  man  immediately  clutched  it  out  of  her 
hand,  and  a  second  later  she  had  pushed  open  a 
door  and  entered  the  "  theater."  The  first  sensa 
tion  was  weird,  uncanny,  unreal.  The  room  was 
in  blackness  and  warm  with  dense  humanity  —  a 
smell  of  people.  She  was  jammed  in  with  a 
crowd  waiting  at  the  entrance  for  empty  seats. 
Above  her  from  a  little  aperture  in  the  street-wall, 
a  beam  of  white  light  penciled  through  the  air, 
widening  out  as  it  went,  until  it  splashed  the  white 
framed  plaster  of  the  rear.  Far  away  she  saw  the 
gray-white-black  kaleidoscope-effect  of  the  cine 
matograph  pictures.  The  floor  seemed  to  heave; 
the  room  to  rock;  she  was  dizzied  and  dazed. 

But  the  music !  Softly  it  rose  and  fell  —  sweet, 
penetrating,  weird  and  wild.  This  was  no  ordi 
nary  musician.  This  was  one  whose  eyes  fol 
lowed  the  pictures,  and  whose  hands  wrought  an 
expressive  sound,  so  that  the  music  suited  the 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  79 

action,  and  the  action  the  music.  The  theme  on 
the  piano  flowed,  changed  abruptly  —  became 
"  nervous  "  at  the  dramatic  moment,  mirthful  at 
the  release.  That  music  told  the  people  exactly 
what  the  characters  in  the  pictures  were  feeling  and 
thinking.  It  gave  them  the  last  touch  of  life; 
they  became  living  human  beings. 

Lilith  felt  like  clutching  someone  to  hold  on  to 
Earth.  She  was  swimming  in  the  space  beyond 
the  stars.  Tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She 
had  not  known  she  could  be  so  happy  —  she  had 
not  known  that  the  dusty  heart  can  leap  up  like 
twenty  chariots  and  whirl  in  the  Arena.  Mad 
life!  Mad  souls!  Mad  destiny!  — 

And  then  the  music  stopped.  Electric  lights 
came  sprouting  out  of  the  walls,  and  all  was  com 
monplace  enough.  A  hilarious  crowd  jammed 
through  the  exit,  and  the  waiting  crowd  gave  like 
ice  in  April  and  poured  like  a  torrent  down  the 
aisle  and  into  the  two  hundred  seats.  It  was  just 
a  long  room,  zinc-plated,  and  low-ceiled,  and  these 
people  were  just  —  people.  At  least  to  the  eyes 
of  others.  But  to  themselves?  This  fat  wash 
woman  with  her  baby  —  what  of  her?  Was  this 
not  Saturday  night?  Was  not  her  long  day  of 
drab  work  with  soapsuds  and  tub  touched  now 
with  the  Dream?  Did  not  a  mere  nickel  swing 
her  into  the  Heroic  and  the  Romantic?  This  was 
truly  the  Theater  of  the  People  —  the  Theater  of 
Democracy  —  come  of  itself  —  not  born  of  states- 


8o  PAY  ENVELOPES 

manship  or  university.  Here  it  was,  a  part  of  the 
daily  lives  of  the  unlearned  and  the  unmoneyed. 
This  washwoman  had  neither  time  nor  money 
nor  clothes  for  the  real  theater.  But  here  —  tales 
of  love,  scenes  of  far  lands,  romances  of  heroism 
became  a  part  of  her  heart  and  soul.  She  strug 
gled  —  laughed,  cried,  felt  and  thought  —  with 
these  strange  heroes  and  heroines!  She  forgot 
her  own  life;  she  entered  the  common  life  of  the 
race  —  she  expanded  her  soul  over  earth  and 
through  human  hearts.  This  was  the  release,  the 
glorification  of  the  day's  work. 

Down  went  the  lights;  the  wall  was  splashed 
again;  and  Lilith,  just  seated,  with  no  time  to 
look  at  the  pianist  who  sat  in  a  pit  beneath  the 
pictures,  was  suddenly  absorbed  by  a  vast  melo 
drama.  She  forgot  all  else ;  so  did  these  laborers, 
these  clerks,  these  shopgirls  and  tenement-women. 
Truly  Lilith  was  not  herself.  She  was  in  the  pic 
tures  there;  she  was  that  beautiful,  unfaithful 
wife;  she  ran  away  from  her  child  and  her  actor- 
husband;  she  kidnaped  her  child;  there  was  fire 
in  the  house;  there  was  a  wild  drive  to  a  deserted 
barn;  there  was  ultimate  disgrace.  What  a  won 
derful  way  to  live!  Carriages,  a  rich  mansion, 
wine,  fire,  ruin !  And  all  so  much  more  real  than 
reality!  She  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  music 
that  made  the  illusion  perfect  —  that  made  her 
feel  and  see  so  intensely.  The  audience  was 
breathless  when  the  series  stopped,  and  a  new 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  81 

drama  —  a  drama  of  the  Western  desert,  the  trail- 
lost  man,  wife  and  child,  unfolded  its  grim 
tragedy.  The  women  —  Lilith,  too  —  sobbed  as 
if  their  hearts  were  broken.  Whereupon  a  topsy 
turvy  picture  followed,  full  of  laughter  —  and 
then  a  plaintive  song  sung  by  a  girl  and  illustrated 
by  brilliantly  colored  slides  —  and  then  —  the 
lights  went  up,  the  audience  trooped  out. 

Lilith  —  wholly  transfigured  now  and  to  her 
own  inner  eyes  a  very  beauty  of  womanhood  — 
kept  her  seat,  leaned  forward,  and  gazed  at  the 
pianist.  His  back  was  to  her,  however,  and  she 
saw  nothing  save  a  bowed  form  and  heavy  dark 
hair.  This  then,  was  he!  Should  she  get  up  and 
go  to  him?  Before  these  people?  No.  She 
would  wait.  She  would  watch  the  pictures. 

They  whirled  on  and  on.  She  saw  them  five 
times  —  each  time  vividly  living  the  pictured  life 
—  a  very  cyclone  of  romance.  And  at  every 
pause  she  watched  the  back  of  the  musician,  and 
her  daring  —  absorbed  from  the  melodramatic 
picture-women  —  rose  and  rose.  Her  cheeks  were 
hot,  her  heart  thumping  heavily,  her  head 
weighted  with  blood.  Not  once,  however,  did  she 
see  his  face.  She  did  see  his  hand  holding  a  queer 
bottle  which  he  drew  from  his  back  trousers  pocket, 
but  it  meant  little  to  her.  Nor  did  she  notice,  as 
the  hour  grew  late,  how  the  music  deteriorated  — 
what  bursts  of  rhapsody  interlarded  with  Bowery 
banging. 


82  PAY  ENVELOPES 

Suddenly  a  slide  flashed  big  letters  on  the 
screen : 

"ALL  OUT: 

SEE  TO-MORROW'S  BILL 

BEST  IN  YORKVILLE 

GOOD-NIGHT." 

The  small  crowd  began  to  file  out,  but  Lilith 
lingered,  alone  on  her  row  of  seats.  She  could 
hardly  breathe,  she  could  hardly  rise  —  the  heat 
of  blood  in  her  head  was  unbearable.  Then, 
quickly,  she  clutched  the  seat  before  her  and  pulled 
herself  up.  The  pianist,  too,  was  rising.  She 
stepped  —  she  knew  not  how  —  to  his  side.  She 
was  actually  leaning  against  the  railing  of  the  pit, 
as  if  she  had  fainted. 

"  Henry  —  Lutz,"  she  murmured. 

The  musician  turned  violently.  She  saw  his 
face  in  one  wild  flash,  and  recoiled  horrified  —  it 
was  cynical,  hard,  blotched  with  pimples  —  a  stale 
crusty  face  with  little  round  sparkling  eyes  and 
heavy  sensual  lips.  And  in  that  moment  that  face 
became  a  mirror  in  which  she  saw  herself  as  he 
saw  her  —  for  he  saw  the  Lilith  of  Eighty-Third 
Street,  New  York  City  —  the  blur  of  faded  eyes 
on  the  sallow  face  —  the  poor  shriveled  thing  — 
not  a  Girl  of  Lover's  Lane. 

He,  too,  seized  the  railing,  and  she  smelt  his 
breath  —  rancid  with  cheap  whiskey. 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  83 

"  How'd  you  know  me?"  he  whispered  hard, 
like  a  criminal  caught. 

She  gave  a  low  cry: 

«  I  _  I  _  I'm  _  I'm  Lilith!  " 

He  deliberately  pulled  out  his  whiskey  flask, 
tilted  his  head  far  back  and  drained  its  last  drops, 
and  while  she  waited  —  clutching  the  rail  as  if 
she  were  hanging  on  to  the  last  vestige  of  the 
Dream- World  —  he  laughed  and  flung  the  bottle 
on  the  floor.  Then  he  leaned  near,  and  whis 
pered  drunkenly,  fanning  her  with  whiskey-fumes : 

"Lilith?  Bless  me!  Lilith!  Sweet  girl  was 
Lilith  —  here's  to  her  beauty,  looking  at  you  1 
Damn  you  —  hie  —  I  loved  Lilith  —  ever  shall 
— •  only  girl  in  the  world  —  she's  immortal 
too—" 

And  as  Lilith  tried  to  keep  back  the  cries  that 
shrilled  through  her  brain  and  beat  at  her  lips  — 
he  leaned  still  closer  to  tell  her  a  secret: 

"  Lilith  ?  Immortal  is  Lilith !  I  put  her  in 
my  music  —  hie  —  pretty  cute,  wasn't  it?  —  No 
one  would  have  guessed  it  —  but  it  makes  'em  cry 
and  laugh,  it  does.  Beats  Wagner,  Chopin,  Men 
delssohn,  Busset,  MacDowell  to  a  standstill. 
That's  Lilith  —  I'm  married  to  her  —  no  one 
guesses  it  —  hie  —  but  it  makes  'em  laugh  and 
cry !  Good-night,  dearie !  " 

A  uniformed  man  was  shouting  hoarsely: 

"  Cut  it  out  there,  Lutz  —  cut  it  out  —  ye're 
drunk !  Madam,  all  out!  " 


84  PAY  ENVELOPES 

The  world  swam  black  before  her;  she  stag 
gered  she  knew  not  where;  she  felt  sudden  keen 
icy  air;  she  moved  rapidly —  and  then,  like  a  mist 
fallen  away,  the  world  was  revealed  to  her. 
Third  Avenue  was  dark,  vast,  deserted  —  though 
now  and  then  roused  like  a  drunken  man  from  his 
sleep  by  the  terrific  thunder  of  the  elevated  trains. 
The  stores  —  vacant-eyed  —  slept  emptily;  gone 
were  fruit  and  chestnuts;  gone  was  the  Holiday 
Spirit;  gone  was  the  crowd.  No,  this  was  not 
Lover's  Lane ;  this  was  a  sordid,  a  squalid  market- 
street  of  the  city. 

Her  brain,  her  heart  cleared.  She  moved  down 
the  empty  night  avenue  a  poor  bowed  frail  dress 
maker  —  a  weak  blur  of  womanhood  —  hurrying 
back  to  an  incarnation  of  faded  lace  curtain,  an 
tique  crayons,  shoddy  carpet  —  back  to  the  pins 
and  needles  in  her  waist  —  back  to  the  stitches 
and  the  silence  —  back  to  the  mother. 

The  mother!  Strange  thought!  The  poor 
mother,  who  somehow,  unconsciously  and  without 
fame,  was  a  living  martyr,  stitching  clothes  for  the 
human  race  in  her  lonesome  cell,  as  far  from  New 
York  as  the  tale  of  Troy.  What  was  in  the 
mother's  life  that  was  sweet  or  daring  or  touched 
with  dream?  Barren  life  —  dusty,  decaying  — 
miserable  sacrifice  to  a  world  of  clothes.  And 
Lilith,  brooding  on  this,  felt  a  new  compassion, 
never  known  before,  steal  through  her  heart  — 
a  tender  love,  never  dreamed  of,  stir  through  her 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  85 

body.  Why  not  warm  what  was  left  of  the 
mother's  life  with  the  heat  of  love?  Why  not 
bring  into  the  dusty  room  one  ray  of  the  lights  of 
Third  Avenue  —  one  throb  of  the  Dream- World 
—  one  breath  of  the  music  — 

The  music! 

She  hurried  down  Eighty-third  Street,  she  un 
locked  her  way  through  the  two  doors,  she  stood 
again  in  the  still  years,  the  smothering  air,  the 
smell  of  steamed  garments.  Her  mother  sat  as 
she  had  sat  when  Lilith  left  —  sewing  quietly  at 
another  sleeve  turned  inside-out. 

She  looked  up  —  poor  piteous  face  —  too 
flabby  for  wrinkles  even!  Something  tore  the 
heart  in  Lilith's  breast.  In  a  moment  she  was 
kneeling  at  her  mother's  side,  she  had  seized 
needle  and  sleeve,  and  fat  old  hands,  and  her  hot 
tears  were  splashing  on  the  upturned  palms. 
Otherwise  there  was  silence,  while  Lilith  cried  her 
soul  out. 

Then  dimly  and  far-away  and  weird  and  unreal 
came  the  mother's  voice: 

"So?  —  Ach!  so!" 

Just  a  trace  of  the  mother-passion  was  there. 
A  trace  —  the  first  streak  of  morning-light  in  the 
still  years. 

Lilith  broke  out  passionately : 

"Mother!  I'll  never  leave  you!  I'll  not  go 
again!  I'll  make  you  happy!  " 

She  looked  up;  her  mother's  face  was  a  study 


86  PAY  ENVELOPES 

in  silent  sorrow  —  ineffable  tragedy  and  pathos. 
Slowly  two  tears  trickled  down  the  flabby  cheeks 
and  the  old  lips  began  to  move  —  trying  vainly 
to  burst  through  the  silent  years. 

"So!  so!  —  ach,  so!" 

The  two  arose;  they  walked  into  the  bedroom; 
their  faces  shone  with  strange  light.  They  un 
dressed  quietly;  they  went  to  bed;  for  long  they 
lay  awake  steeped  in  a  new  light,  so  soft,  so  ten 
der,  so  thrilling  they  could  not  stir. 

Then  in  the  darkness  —  on  a  sob  —  came  the 
mother's  voice: 

"  Lilith !  " 

/'Mutter!" 

A  big  old  hand  searched  the  bed-clothes  — 
searched  and  searched  —  and  found  the  fat  hand 
of  Lilith.  The  two  hands  were  clasped  softly; 
the  mother  burst  into  hysterical  sobs,  and  Lilith 
buried  her  face  half  in  her  pillow.  The  great 
years  were  smashed  —  the  hearts  opened.  Light 
had  come,  and  love. 

No  word  more  was  said  in  the  night.  And 
softly  then  to  Lilith  came  back,  on  wings  of  sleep, 
the  Dream-World,  the  lights  of  Saturday  night, 
and  Lover's  Lane  —  and  the  music ! 

The  music!  It  was  her  soul  married  to  his! 
She  had  not  lived  in  vain,  after  all!  She  was 
moving  people  to  tears  and  laughter;  she  was 
wedded  to  Henry  Lutz  —  the  Henry  Lutz  that 
might  have  been.  Life  had  not  lost  its  glory  and 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  87 

its  romance.  What  if  her  body  and  the  body  of 
Henry  were  as  dead  —  did  not  their  souls  live  in 
that  music? 

And  she  fell  asleep  in  the  Dream-World  —  the 
lights  of  Saturday  night  —  Lover's  Lane  —  and 
the  Music. 


THE  COG 


THE  COG 

TV/TOLLY,  with  her  hand  on  the  door  knob, 
turned  to  the  two  children  in  the  kitchen. 
Her  voice  was  tender  and  full  of  pain. 

"  Won't  you  be  still,  children?  Children,  won't 
you?" 

Then  she  softly  opened  the  door  and  stepped 
noiselessly  into  the  twilight  room.  Her  husband 
lay  asleep  on  the  bed,  stretched  flat  and  fully 
dressed.  She  leaned  over  the  breathing,  living  bulk 
of  man,  and  brought  her  tender  face  close  to  his  hot 
fevered  cheeks  and  his  rough  gray  hair.  In  the 
darkness  he  seemed  so  near,  and  so  far  —  so  real 
and  so  unsubstantial.  It  was  at  that  moment  of 
dusk  when  people  draw  close  to  one  another. 

Molly  hesitated.  She  wanted  to  pray,  and  had 
forgotten  how.  She  looked  about  the  room  as  if 
she  expected  to  see  some  great  power  and  couldn't 
find  it.  She  could  only  say  awkwardly: 

"  Please  —  please  spare  him  —  and  me.  I 
can't  lose  him.  I  can't  —  I  can't." 

And  then  she  murmured  to  herself,  all  bitterly 
and  brokenly:  "  I've  lost  him  already." 

She  felt  swiftly  over  his  soft,  warm  cotton  shirt 
for  his  hand;  it  was  as  if  she  were  trying  to  take 

91 


92  PAY  ENVELOPES 

hold  of  him  and  keep  him;  and  then  a  tear  slid 
down  to  her  chin  and  fell  and  touched  the  hot, 
fevered  cheek. 

The  man  stirred  uncomfortably.  "  You, 
Moll?  "  His  voice  was  thick  and  husky. 

"Richard!  "she  cried. 

She  suddenly  pushed  her  arm  behind  the  pillow 
and  drew  his  head  up  and  kissed  him  passionately. 

"  Do  you  love  me?  "  she  whispered. 

There  was  a  deep  silence. 

"Richard!" 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  Richard!  " 

And  then  he  suddenly  pushed  her  off,  struggled, 
and  sat  up.  She  sank  back  on  her  knees,  gasping, 
sobbing,  her  mind  a  little  wild. 

"  Love !  "  he  muttered.  "  You've  let  me  over 
sleep."  He  leaned  close,  menacingly.  "  You've 
let  me  oversleep!  " 

He  gripped  her  arm  hard  and  looked  into  her 
face. 

"Answer  me  this!  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  a  colorless  voice. 

"  It's  time  to  go  to  work,  ain't  it  so?  " 

She  said  nothing. 

"  Damn  you  —  it's  time  to  go  to  work,  ain't  it 
so?" 

"  Yes,  Dick,"  she  murmured,  "  it's  time  to  go 
to  work.  But  you're  not  fit — " 

He  tumbled  out  of  bed,  stood  up,  and  then,  as 


THE  COG  93 

he  was  very  sick  and  felt  dizzy,  he  held  on  to  the 
bedpost.  But  he  spoke  in  a  blaze  of  anger : 

"  And  you  know  we're  piling  up  a  tonnage  rec 
ord,  and  you  know  the  blooming  mill  depends  on 
me,  and  you  know  I'll  be  fired  if  I  don't  mark 
time  "  —  his  voice  put  on  a  cutting  edge  —  "  and 
you  come  babying  around  —  do  I  love  you  — 
shucks !  Get  me  my  supper  and  be  quick  about  it!  " 

He  added  something  under  his  breath  as  he  went 
reeling  into  the  kitchen.  The  two  children,  Nellie 
and  Bob,  playing  in  a  corner,  stopped  when  they 
saw  him  and  slid  out  the  back  door  into  the  even 
ing. 

"  You  better  get  out,"  he  muttered. 

Then  he  sank  all  in  a  lump  in  a  kitchen  chair 
and  leaned  his  head  on  the  oilcloth  covered  table. 
His  fingers  ran  through  his  rough  gray  hair;  and 
his  lean  face,  with  its  burning  blue  eyes  and  knotty, 
flushed  cheeks,  and  big  lips,  was  half  shadowy, 
half  starting  out  in  the  gaslight  above  him.  Be 
hind  him  the  shiny  black  stove  was  breathing  up 
heat  about  a  sputtering  coffeepot  and  a  pan  of 
potatoes.  There  were  chairs  and  a  cupboard,  two 
windows  and  a  door  —  a  neat,  compact  room. 

Molly  came  in  quietly,  her  face  very  pale.  She 
poured  off  a  cup  of  coffee,  lightened  it  with  milk, 
and  set  it  before  him.  Then  she  hesitatingly 
pushed  some  potato  slices  on  a  plate  and  set  it 
beside  the  coffee.  He  roughly  pushed  the  plate 
aside. 


94  PAY  ENVELOPES 

"  Take  it  away  —  fool !  " 

She  took  it  away  quickly. 

"  Get  me  the  sugar!  " 

She  suddenly  wheeled  around  before  him,  and 
spoke  quietly:  u  Say  please!  " 

He  looked  up  at  the  white  face  a  moment,  and 
laughed  harshly.  "Getting  notions,  eh?  Well, 
here  goes !  "  And  he  began  sipping  the  coffee 
slowly. 

She  stood  silent,  and  then  she  drew  up  a  chair 
and  sat  at  the  table  beside  him.  She  made  up 
her  mind  then  to  keep  him  from  the  mill  at  any 
cost.  She  spoke  quietly:  "  You're  sick;  you're  not 
going  to  work  to-night." 

"  Who's  going  to  stop  me?  " 

"//" 

He  gave  her  a  quick  glance.     "  You,  eh?  " 

She  leaned  toward  him,  and  lowered  her  voice. 
"  I've  been  silent  years  —  now  I'm  going  to  speak." 

He  clenched  his  fists,  and  loosed  his  quick  tem 
per  again.  "  Shut  up  !  My  God,  you  woman — " 

Then  she  broke  in  with  a  sharp  cry :  "  See ! — 
See !  What  an  animal  you're  getting  to  be!  " 

He  looked  at  her  quickly  then,  and  saw  the  fire 
in  her  clear  gray  eyes.  "  Animal?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered  tensely,  "  you're  not  a 
man  any  more." 

He  began  sipping  the  coffee  again.  In  the  thick, 
warm  silence  they  heard  the  children  laughing  as 
they  ran  after  each  other. 


THE  COG  95 

"  Richard,"  said  Molly  softly,  "  you're  not  even 
a  decent  father  any  more." 

He  sipped  again  at  the  coffee. 

"  And  you  think,"  she  went  on,  "  that  a  woman 
can  stand  for  anything.  She  can't  —  she  won't. 
Go  any  farther  "  —  she  paused  and  spaced  the 
words  —  "go  —  any  —  farther  — -  and  I'll  leave 
you." 

He  went  on  sipping  coffee,  and  then  suddenly 
he  took  a  deep  breath,  expanding  his  chest,  and 
rested  his  head  in  his  hand. 

"Who  does  the  work,  eh?" 

"  I  guess  I  do  as  much  as  you,"  said  Molly. 

"  Well,"  he  muttered  sullenly,  "  who  brings  in 
the  money?  " 

"  You  do." 

"  How  much  a  week?  " 

"  Thirty-five  dollars  a  week." 

"  Well,"  he  muttered,  "  what  more  do  you 
want?" 

She  gave  a  strange,  short  laugh,  and  looked 
down  at  the  floor.  "  It  might  do  for  a  man,"  she 
breathed,  "  but  not  for  a  woman,  and  you  know 
it." 

"Know  what?" 

"Oh  — nothing!" 

He  began  sipping  his  coffee  again.  And  then 
her  heart  seemed  to  crack  open,  and  the  terrible 
pang  shot  through  her  throat  and  to  her  lips  and 


96  PAY  ENVELOPES 

she  cried:  u  Richard  —  you  don't  love  me!  You 
don't  love  me  any  more !  " 

His  mouth  opened  to  speak,  but  he  said  nothing. 
He  looked  at  her  with  a  tragic  sullenness,  a  bitter 
defiance. 

"  Richard,"  she  cried  again,  "  your  work's  come 
between  us.  You  —  a  man  of  thirty-five  —  your 
hair's  gray!  " 

He  started  to  speak  again,  but  said  nothing. 
She  leaned  closer,  and  spoke  her  heart  out,  the 
words  lashing  him. 

"  The  steel  mill's  killing  you.  It's  the  twelve- 
hour  day.  Twelve  hours  a  day  for  a  whole  week 
—  and  then  twelve  hours  for  seven  nights.  Seven 
nights  you  don't  sleep  with  me.  I  never  see  you 
more  than  an  hour  at  a  time,  and  then  you're  dead 
tired."  She  raised  her  voice  to  a  quivering  cry: 
"  It'd  been  better  if  we'd  'a'  been  found  dead  in 
each  other's  arms  the  night  after  we  married,  when 
we  knew  there  was  a  God  in  this  world!  Our 
children  were  damned,  not  born !  " 

The  door  opened  softly  then,  and  a  little,  thin 
girl,  with  tossing  brown  curls,  ran  in  to  her  mother. 
"  Mugger!  Mugger!  " 

The  mother  drew  the  little  one  close  and  patted 
a  cheek,  and  spoke  in  a  low,  dry  voice:  "  Yes, 
Nellie." 

"  Mugger  —  come  out  and  see  what  we  got!  " 

"  I  can't  now  —  please,  Nellie,  run  along !  " 

"But,  Mugger—" 


THE  COG  97 

"  Run  along!   Please,  please!  " 

The  little  girl  went  out  slowly,  stifling  quick, 
tiny  sobs. 

Molly  turned  a  face  infinitely  sad  upon  her  hus 
band,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  tender  with  pain :  "  This 
isn't  a  home  for  our  children.  It's  no  home  where 
the  man  only  eats  and  sleeps,  and  the  woman 
drudges  all  day.  Don't  you  understand,  Dick? 
We  have  no  time  for  any  pleasures  —  and  you're 
too  tired  to  even  read  any  more  —  and  you  haven't 
time  to  have  friends  in  the  house,  or  call  and  see 
people  —  and  you're  not  any  father.  And  what 
have  the  children  got  ?  This  mill  town  —  soot, 
smoke,  noise,  not  a  patch  of  green,  not  a  clear  sky, 
not  a  place  to  play  —  and  all  the  ragged  children 
here.  Oh,"  she  paused,  clenched  her  fists,  and  half 
closed  her  eyes,  "  when  I  think  it's  our  children 
going  to  waste  like  this  —  and  they  so  full  of 
things  that  might  be  turned  to  good  —  and  some 
thing  so  sweet  in  them  — " 

She  stopped,  staring  into  a  terrible  future. 

"  It's  all  the  twelve-hour  day,"  she  muttered. 
"  It  makes  the  men  cogs  in  the  mills  —  no  more. 
That's  what  you  are.  You're  not  a  man ;  you're  a 
cog." 

He  cleared  his  throat;  he  shuffled  his  feet;  he 
drew  a  little  nearer,  and  at  last  his  voice  rose, 
trembling:  "  Anything  else,  eh?  " 

She  looked  suddenly  straight  in  his  eyes,  and  kept 
his  gaze.  Then  she  spoke  in  a  voice  that  had 


9 8  iPAY  ENVELOPES 

lightning  in  it  —  that  seemed  to  stab  through  him 
like  a  long  needle. 

"  Yes  —  you  and  I  have  lived  as  if  there  weren't 
any  God,  and  you've  lost  your  soul,  Richard,  you've 
lost  your  soul.  You  can't  love  any  more,  and  you 
don't  live.  You're  a  cog." 

His  face  struggled  violently,  he  opened  and 
closed  his  mouth.  Then  he  half  closed  his  eyes 
and  snarled :  "  Now,  you've  spoke  —  and  what 
are  we  going  to  do,  eh?  " 

She  spoke  intensely :  "  Strike!  " 

"  Strike,  eh  ?  "  He  smote  the  table  with  his 
fist.  "  Didn't  we  strike  here  in  Homestead  in  '92, 
and  wasn't  our  union  busted  up  good  and  thor 
ough  ?  And  ain't  they  spies  all  through  the  mills, 
and  it's  worth  a  man's  job  to  open  his  mouth  or 
make  a  kick?  And  don't  they  own  us  on  election 
day  and  it's  vote  with  the  bosses  or  quit?  Talk's 
cheap  !  "  —  he  snapped  his  fingers.  "  But  let  me 
tell  you,  I  hold  down  a  thirty-five  a  week  job,  and  I 
couldn't  earn  half  that  elsewhere.  I'm  stuck. 
They've  got  me  —  they've  got  me  for  life.  We 
have  a  few  hundred  in  the  bank,  eh?  But  how 
long  would  that  last?  Do  you  want  me  to  get  a 
job  at  ten  or  twelve  per,  and  live  like  a  Hunk?  A 
cog,  eh?  Well,  what  should  I  do?  " 

He  arose,  one  hand  pressed  on  the  table.  And 
then  the  clock  slowly  struck  five. 

He  staggered  across  the  room,  picked  his  hat 
and  coat  from  a  wall-hook,  and  put  them  on. 


THE  COG  99 

Molly  leaped  up  with  a  low  cry,  rushed  to  the 
door,  and  stood  with  an  arm  across  it.  Her  face 
was  white  with  agony. 

"  You're  not  going,"  she  murmured  breathlessly. 

"Not?" 

He  advanced  toward  her. 

"  Dick,"  she  cried,  "  you're  not  going !  " 

He  seized  her  two  arms  and  pushed  her  aside, 
opened  the  door,  and  stepped  out.  She  gave  a: 
wild  cry,  that  called  the  children  home,  as  he 
slammed  the  door  and  reeled  down  the  street. 

The  evening  was  chilly,  making  him  shiver,  and 
in  the  smoky  air  street-lamps  burned  dimly  about 
him.  He  turned  the  corner  and  walked  down  the 
hill.  On  one  side,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  stood 
the  black  wall  of  the  mill  grounds,  on  the  other 
the  smoke-blackened  mill  houses,  each  set  in  a  cin 
der-dead  soil  that  never  bloomed. 

Richard  felt  sick,  utterly  sick.  He  reeled 
through  the  smoky  air,  turned  a  corner  and  crossed 
a  bridge  into  the  mill  grounds.  Many  other  men 
were  hurrying  with  him.  As  they  went  on,  sud 
denly  their  grim  faces  were  splashed  by  far  fires 
and  strange  lights.  They  began  stepping  over 
intricate  tangles  of  railway  tracks  in  the  yards,  and 
all  the  time  their  faces  shone  brighter.  Yet  not 
a  man  of  them  took  any  interest,  though  all  about 
them  was  one  of  the  sublime  scenes  of  America. 

They  did  not  seem  to  see  the  shining  tracks,  the 
glistening  red  and  green  lanterns,  the  mills  glow- 


ioo  PAY  ENVELOPES 

ing  through  their  windows  like  buildings  eaten  with 
fire,  the  tongues  of  flames  through  the  roofs,  the 
vast  swirls  of  blaze  and  red-shuddering  smoke 
clouds,  and  the  thousand  chimney  pipes  looking 
through  the  changing  lights.  Through  all  this, 
among  the  buildings,  over  the  rails,  in  the  thick  of 
a  roar  of  machinery,  a  thunder  and  thirr  and  crash 
of  tools,  a  confusion  of  yard-engines,  shrieking  up 
and  down  with  little  flat-cars,  a  hurry  of  lanterns 
•—  through  it  all,  the  men  moved  silently,  dully,  lit 
on  every  side,  their  black,  greasy  overalls  glisten 
ing  as  they  moved. 

Richard  entered  a  large,  square  building  where 
the  sloping,  many-beamed  roof  was  in  huge  shad 
ows.  Set  in  the  solid  masonry  of  the  floor 
were  steel  trapdoors.  A  man,  grasping  a  lever, 
stood  in  front  of  one  of  these,  just  as  an  overhead 
crane,  like  a  bridge  running  down  the  room  came 
whizzing  along.  From  the  crane  hung  suspended 
a  huge  steel  hand.  It  stopped  above  the  man;  he 
at  once  pulled  the  lever,  and  the  trapdoor  at  his 
feet  opened  like  a  huge  mouth,  revealing  the 
"  soaking  pit."  This  was  a  well  of  fire  —  white- 
hot  —  intolerable  to  the  eye.  Nor  could  the  flesh 
come  near  it.  But  the  huge  steel  hand  never  fal 
tered.  It  reached  down  into  the  very  hell  of  fire, 
and  slowly  drew  out  a  dazzling,  sizzling,  white-hot 
ten-ton  ingot  of  steel.  This  it  bore  down  the  room 
and  shoved  on  to  steel  rollers  that  ran  off  into  the 
adjoining  room. 


THE 


Richard  entered  this  next  room.  At  his  side  the 
rollers,  one  next  to  the  other  in  a  long  path,  were 
turning,  and  the  ingot  slid  over  them,  and  made 
straight  for  a  huge  "  clothes  wringer  "  that  stood 
in  its  path.  Suddenly  it  hit  this  steel-wringer  with 
a  loud  "  spla  !  "  —  there  was  a  shower  of  sparks, 
and  it  went  through  with  a  wild  "  klong-a-a-1  "  — 
like  the  howl  of  a  hungry  lioness.  The  great 
wringer  pressed  the  steel  out,  but  no  sooner  had  it 
emerged  on  the  other  side,  longer  and  flatter,  than 
it  was  shot  back,  and  so,  back  and  forth,  until  it 
was  thinned  into  a  long,  wide  ribbon  of  steel,  and 
was  rolled  away  to  the  next  room  to  be  cooled  and 
sheared. 

Laborers  hovered  about  the  immense  and  intri 
cate  wringer,  and  as  the  blazing  ingot  passed,  their 
faces  and  forms  came  and  went  sharp  and 
shadowy.  Two  men  stood  at  opposite  sides  on  a 
little  platform  above  the  "  wringer,"  each  with  his 
hand  on  a  lever.  One  controlled  the  direction  of 
the  rolls,  the  other  the  force  of  the  pressure. 
Richard  relieved  the  man  at  the  pressure-lever,  and 
at  once  his  work  began. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  terrible  nights  of  his  life. 
He  was  sick;  he  could  hardly  hold  his  head 
straight;  and  yet  he  had  to  have  a  clear  eye,  a 
steady  hand,  and  infinite  patience.  His  gaze  never 
left  the  hurrying  ingot,  and  he  had  to  gauge  its 
thickness  and  what  it  would  stand.  Each  time  it 
drew  near,  it  shot  over  him  a  consuming  heat  that 


rbi  .  .P&Y  ENVELOPES 

burnt  and  smothered  and  made  the  flesh  tingle  in 
tolerably.  Ordinarily  he  would  not  have  felt  this, 
but  to-night  he  was  sick.  The  glare,  too,  hurt  his 
eyes,  and  the  steel  lever  got  hot  under  his  gloves. 

There  was  no  breathing  spell.  Ingot  followed 
ingot  without  pause.  He  pulled  the  lever,  and 
then,  with  the  wild  howl,  a  shower  of  sparks,  a 
smell  of  powder,  the  ingot  was  squeezed.  The 
speed  was  terrific  and  grew  worse,  for  the  little 
foreman  had  given  out  the  impression  that  his  men 
must  pile  up  a  record  and  beat  the  output  of  the 
other  mills.  And  the  responsibility  was  what  made 
a  man  old  —  for  if  anything  went  wrong,  if  an 
ingot  was  spoiled  or  the  mill  stopped,  the  money 
loss  to  the  workers,  as  well  as  to  the  mill,  was  very 
large,  for  the  men  were  paid  by  the  ton. 

Hour  followed  hour,  and  Richard  pressed  the 
lever  down  or  pulled  it  up,  his  face  twisted  with 
the  torture  of  the  toil,  every  nerve,  every  muscle 
strained  and  alert  and  in  action.  His  head  now 
and  then  went  dizzy  and  his  face  paled.  When 
ever  he  winked  he  saw  a  red  ingot  sliding  back  and 
forth.  And  worst  of  all,  his  heart  was  in  wild  and 
new  revolt.  He  heard  the  cry  of  his  wife  —  her 
words  kept  beating  through  his  brain.  Sick  and 
desperate  and  struggling,  he  could  not  shun  the 
truth.  He  knew  that  everything  she  had  said  was 
true.  Yes,  bitterly  true !  Look  at  this  machine  — 
it  did  all  the  work  —  he,  the  man,  merely  waited 


THE  COG  103 

on  it,  pulling  a  lever  for  it.  That  was  his  life. 
He  was  nothing  but  a  cog.  It  was  this  for  twelve 
hours,  and  then  a  bite,  a  sleep,  and  this  again. 
What  was  he  but  an  animal?  Yes,  Molly  had 
told  him. 

And  then,  each  time  an  ingot  hit  the  wringer, 
some  phrase  went  through  his  head  and  made  him 
struggle  inwardly.  Bang  —  went  an  ingot !  — 
and  Molly  was  murmuring  that  he  had  no  soul, 
that  he  did  not  love  her. —  Bang !  —  and  she  was 
speaking  of  the  children. —  Bang !  —  and  she  told 
him  how  he  had  stopped  his  reading. —  Bang !  — 
and  his  friends. —  Bang !  —  And  he  didn't  love 
Molly;  how  could  he?  —  Bang!  —  He  was  get 
ting  to  be  an  animal ! 

On  and  on  it  went,  the  noise,  the  glare,  the  heat, 
the  dizzying  sickness.  Hour  followed  hour 
through  the  terrible  night  —  hour  after  hour  and 
no  end  near.  His  tongue  and  throat  grew  parched, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  toiling  over  a  sun-stricken 
desert  of  measureless,  dazzling  sand,  toiling,  lift 
ing,  sinking,  burning.  Now  and  then  a  shower  of 
sparks  leaped  as  through  his  brain;  now  and  then 
the  whole  room  turned  red.  Now  he  seemed  to 
be  pushing  the  lever  down  over  the  floating  face  of 
Molly,  and  her  fearful  cry  rang  through  the  mill. 
Now  by  a  mighty  effort  he  saw  clearly  again  —  the 
hovering  laborers  all  sharp  and  shadowy,  the  ad 
vancing  ingot,  the  gloomy,  dark  wringer,  the  men- 


io4  PAY  ENVELOPES 

acing  heights  above  him.  But  Molly  kept  saying : 
"  Richard,  you  don't  love  me  any  more  —  you 
don't  love  me  I  " 

So  he  gave  the  lever  a  good  jam.  There  was  a 
weird,  unusual  crash,  a  splutter,  and  a  dozen  men 
roared  together.  The  rolls  stopped,  and  in  the 
queer  silence  Richard  saw  clearly  again.  He  had 
jammed  an  ingot  and  broken  a  coupling  sleeve.  A 
sickening  horror  went  through  him.  It  meant  the 
loss  of  an  hour's  time.  He  had  tied  up  the  whole 
mill.  And  all  the  other  workers  would  lose  in 
their  wages,  too. 

All  the  men  of  the  section  came  rushing  toward 
him,  shouting  angrily.  And  then  suddenly  the 
little  foreman  came  dancing  up. 

The  little  fellow  swung  a  fist  in  Richard's  face, 
and  shrieked :  "  Damn  you  —  damn  you !  Just  as 
we're  piling  up  a  tonnage  record !  —  I'll  trim  you 
for  this—" 

Then  suddenly  fifteen  years  of  silent  pressure 
blew  off.  Demons  raged  in  Richard's  heart,  his 
brain  went  hot.  With  his  powerful  hands  he 
gripped  the  little  foreman  by  the  throat. 

"  You  damned  little  pusher,"  he  snapped,  "  go 
to  hell!" 

The  foreman  choked  and  sputtered  as  he  was 
released,  and  the  ring  of  workmen  stifled  their 
smiles.  Then  the  foreman  backed  away,  mutter 
ing:  "  I  suppose  you  know  what  this  means?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Richard,  "  it  means  good-night!  " 


THE  COG  105 

He  turned  and  walked  off  quietly.  He  went  out 
into  the  yards.  A  brown  dawn  was  searching  its 
way  through  the  swirling  smoke,  and  in  the  vague 
light  all  the  confusion  and  stir  of  the  yards  went 
on.  But  it  never  stopped,  neither  day  nor  night, 
through  the  years.  The  sick  man,  hot  from  the 
flames,  trembled  in  the  chilly  air  of  the  morning. 
His  head,  however,  was  acutely  clear.  He  saw 
all  about  him.  It  must  have  been  the  blood  in 
him,  he  reasoned.  He  came  of  old  American  stock 
—  men  and  women  who  had  given  up  the  comfort 
and  ease  of  home  and  followed  their  God  to  wor 
ship  Him  in  the  West  —  there  in  sweat,  poverty, 
and  hardship  finding  a  freedom  for  the  soul.  He, 
too,  could  make  the  sacrifice.  He,  too,  could  go 
West.  The  West  still  called  the  freeman.  The 
mighty  farmlands  needed  labor — 'the  Northwest 
needed  pioneers.  There,  too,  was  room  for  little 
children  —  and  sun  and  wind  and  a  green  space  for 
the  soul. 

He  was  astonished  to  find  how  calmly  he  took 
it  all.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  left  himself  in  the  mill, 
and  was  a  different  man.  A  world  slid  off  his 
shoulders.  He  was  free,  his  lips  were  loosed. 
In  one  stroke  he  had  regained  his  manhood.  For 
years  the  mills  had  muzzled  him,  worked  him, 
sweated  him,  flung  him  out  for  a  sleep  and  a  bite, 
pulled  him  back  into  the  machinery,  taken  from  him 
his  home,  his  friends,  his  books,  his  church,  his 
leisure,  his  citizenship,  his  free  speech  —  and 


io6  PAY  ENVELOPES 

wasted  the  man  that  might  have  been.  Now  he 
had  jerked  himself  free. 

He  reached  the  street.  The  wind  was  blowing 
away,  and  the  skies  were  clear  above  him.  He 
looked  up.  He  beheld  the  fading  stars.  And 
suddenly  he  stood  still,  and  a  wave  of  glory  swept 
over  him.  Something  broke  within  him  —  some 
crust  about  his  heart  —  and  like  a  revelation  he 
was  charged  with  light.  The  glad  tears  came  to 
his  eyes.  He  felt  that  he  was  beginning  to  live. 
He  wanted  to  open  his  lips  that  his  open  heart 
might  send  its  glory  into  words.  He  heard  the 
wind  singing  about  him,  he  heard  the  night-world 
laboring,  the  engines  puffing,  the  mills  roaring;  he 
saw  the  lights  of  the  street  and  human  beings  be 
neath  them.  His  heart  wen*  out  to  the  great 
world. 

And  then,  as  he  went  on,  with  fresh  tides  of 
life  pouring  through  him,  his  soul  went  out  to  his 
own.  He  thought  of  his  own  children,  he  thought 
of  his  own  wife.  He  marveled  at  the  strange 
years  he  had  lived  through  —  he  marveled  at 
the  miserable  father  and  husband  he  had  been. 
The  father-passion,  long  numb,  awoke  and  struck 
his  heart;  his  man's  love  for  this  woman  made  him 
yearn  with  tenderness.  And  the  glory  bore  him 
along  like  a  boy  in  love. 

He  turned  up  the  dim  street  —  the  house  was 
alight.  He  stepped  around  to  the  rear  and  pushed 
open  the  kitchen  door  and  entered  very  softly. 


THE  COG  107 

Molly  was  building  a  fire  in  the  stove.  She  paused, 
with  a  stick  of  kindling-wood  in  her  hand,  and 
looked  at  him. 

He  spoke  in  a  queer,  suppressed  voice :  "  I  want 
to  see  the  children. " 

Her  eyes  grew  larger,  her  lips  parted,  but  she 
said  nothing. 

He  pushed  open  his  bedroom  door  and  passed 
through  to  the  room  beyond.  He  was  gone 
several  minutes.  When  he  came  back  his  lips  were 
twitching,  and  tears  were  trickling  down  his  face. 

"  Molly." 

"  Yes." 

He  drew  a  step  nearer.  He  tried  to  control 
himself.  He  spoke  softly.  "  I've  —  been  — 
fired." 

She  stared  at  him.     "Fired?"  she  cried. 

"  Fired!     And  we're  poor  as  mice." 

She  took  a  step  toward  him.  "  Fired? — 
Dick!" 

She  gave  a  great  cry  and  held  out  her  arms,  and 
drew  him  close  —  and  closer  —  passionately  hug 
ging  him. 

And  as  he  felt  her  arms  about  him  —  tight, 
tight  —  her  lips  pressed  to  his  —  her  living  pres 
ence  closing  with  his  soul  —  suddenly,  it  was  as  if 
there  was  a  rip  in  his  heart:  love  made  him  trem 
ble,  and  he  murmured : 

"  Molly,  I  love  you  —  I  love  you  again !  " 

And  life  was  sweet  again,  and  they  were  poor. 


SLAG 


SLAG 

A  HUGE  man,  naked  to  the  waist,  bent  down 
at  the  foot  of  the  blast-furnace.  The  im 
mense  structure,  like  a  gas-tank  banded  with  coils 
of  pipe,  loomed  up  through  the  twilight  of  the 
shed  and  was  lost  in  the  spaces  above.  The  hot 
summer  air,  smothering,  thick,  consuming,  was  re 
heated  by  the  furnace,  and  the  man  felt  like  a 
fireman  standing  too  close  to  a  burning  building. 
Fire  is  an  elemental  pain;  it  seems  to  reach  and 
twist  and  tear  the  inmost  soul.  But  the  man 
stooped  deliberately,  and  with  a  long  rod  knocked 
in  a  clay  plug  that  sealed  the  base  of  the  furnace. 
Then  he  leaped  back. 

Through  the  opening  glowed  a  heat  of  white 
fire,  and  at  once  a  stream  of  molten  iron  ran  out 
and  down  a  channel  across  the  platform.  A  gray 
scum  formed  on  this  stream  and  was  drained  off 
into  another  channel.  This  scum  was  the  slag. 
The  main  stream  ran  on  and  went  like  a  waterfall 
over  into  an  immense  steel-ladle  standing  on  a  flat- 
car  below.  The  stream,  like  glowing  golden 
water,  ran  rippling,  sputtering  sparks,  and  when  it 
fell  a  shower  of  white  flakes  leaped  in 
the  air.  A  white  smoke  rolled  up  in  clouds, 

in 


ii2  PAY  ENVELOPES 

luminous,  wonderful,  and  at  once  the  glare  of 
fluid  metal  became  so  intolerable  that  the  naked 
eye  was  blinded.  The  immense  blast-furnace  was 
splashed  with  light  and  shadow,  and  the  half- 
naked  men  standing  about  stood  out  like  living 
statues.  A  nose  here,  a  mouth  there,  a  brown 
eye,  a  bristling  mustache,  hair  on  the  breast, 
sinewy  muscle  on  doubled  arm,  came  sharp  and 
distinct  and  intensely  real.  It  was  all  a  gigan 
tic  scene,  tremendously  modern  —  machinery,  fire 
and  souls  —  in  which  the  souls  stood  about  like 
the  careless  gods  of  Steel.  They  were  handling 
the  elements  with  unfaltering  might. 

But  the  man  who  had  set  the  scene  a-gldw,  stood 
leaning  on  a  long  steel  rod,  his  chin  on  his  hands, 
flame  in  his  face,  flame  on  his  swarthy  arms  and 
breathing  hairy  chest.  He  had  a  little  mustache 
on  his  big  upper  lip,  his  nose  had  a  twist  outward 
at  the  tip,  his  hair  was  black  and  thick  and  flat  over 
his  large  forehead.  And  on  his  face,  every  line 
advertised  by  the  flames,  there  was  a  terrible  hate, 
and  something  else.  The  man  looked  dangerous 
and  murderous. 

He  was  staring  at  another  man.  This  other, 
slim,  graceful,  small,  was  lounging  against  a  pil 
lar  where  the  golden  water  fell  down  into  the  huge 
ladle.  The  big  man  kept  muttering  to  himself: 

"  If  I  give  him  a  push,  he  falls  in  the  ladle. 
That  ends  him.  But  the  ladle  is  not  full  yet!  " 

So  he  stood  like  a  man  of  stone,  remembering 


SLAG  113 

how  once  a  laborer  had  fallen  into  a  ladle  of  molten 
iron  and  had  been  instantly  killed.  The  slow 
minutes  passed,  the  foreman  walked  back  and 
forth,  watching  his  "  baby  " —  the  furnace  — 
and  examining  the  fluid  at  his  feet.  Most  of  the 
men  leaned  against  some  support,  for  they  were 
fainting  with  the  killing  heat.  Then  suddenly 
above  the  sizzle  and  snap  of  the  metal  the  little 
man  began  humming  an  alien  love  song  — 

"  Her  eyes  are  like  the  sunset  star." 

The  big  man  tightened  his  grasp  on  the  iron 
rod  as  if  to  crush  it,  his  muscles  stiffened,  his  eyes 
dilated,  and  he  bit  on  his  lip  —  bit  hard  and  hard. 
"  Ha !  —  sing,  my  pretty  one !  Sing !  " 

It  had  been  a  long  terrible  day  of  summer,  and 
every  few  hours  through  the  smothering  air  the 
blast-furnace  had  sent  out  its  fires.  Two  men  had 
swooned  at  midday,  and  now  the  twelve  hours  of 
toil  were  nearly  over.  But  the  big  man  was  insane 
with  more  than  heat.  The  humming  seemed  like 
powder  blowing  his  brain  up : 

"  And  oh,  the  sunset-streaks  that  are 
Her  lips,  and  oh,  the  night  thick-curled, 
Her  raven  hair  —  through  all  the  air 
She  leads  me  out  beyond  this  world !  " 

He  gave  a  low  growl  and  started  to  advance 
like  a  man-crushing  gorilla.  No  one  noticed  him 


ii4  PAY  ENVELOPES 

—  his  pale  lips  and  rolling  eyes  —  the  certain, 
lumbering  stride  as  he  made  for  his  man.  The 
young  singer  went  on,  heedlessly,  while  the  fourth 
ladle  was  filled  nearly  to  the  top,  and  the  stream 
from  the  furnace  had  begun  to  slacken. 

The  big  man  was  now  very  near,  and  he  paused. 
Right  below  was  that  brimming  ladle  of  swimming 
death,  sputtering  sparks,  and  coated  with  gray 
scum ;  right  before  him  stood  the  singer.  It  needed 
but  a  motion  of  his  arm.  There  was  a  cry  on  his 
lips,  a  fire  in  his  heart.  And  then  the  foreman 
yelled: 

"Jo!" 

The  big  man  did  not  turn. 

"  Jo,"  shrieked  the  foreman,  "  stop  'er  off!  " 

Jo  stood  again  like  a  stone  image.  Then  he 
half  shut  his  eyes  with  cunning  and  muttered : 

"  I'll  wait  till  I  get  them  together  —  I'll  wait 
till  I  get  them  together !  " 

He  turned  then,  "  She  leads  me  out  beyond  the 
world!  "  in  his  ears,  and  strode  softly  back  to  the 
furnace,  yea  up  to  the  mouth  of  hell,  up  to  the 
scorch  and  knifing  pain,  bent,  gathered  up  some 
soft  fire-clay  on  the  end  of  his  rod,  jammed  it 
into  the  opening,  and  shut  off  the  stream.  The 
last  of  it  grew  sluggish  and  began  to  cake  at  his 
feet.  Almost  at  once  a  fresh  crew  came  in :  it  was 
six  o'clock:  and  the  relieved  crew  knocked  off 
work. 


SLAG  115 

Jo  pulled  his  shirt  down  from  a  hook,  put  his 
head  through  it,  and  jerked  it  over  his  wet  body. 
Then  he  slipped  on  his  coat.  Looking  into  the 
twilight  beyond  the  shed  his  eyes  blinked  and  saw 
fire.  But  he  kept  staring  until  he  saw  the  singer 
pass  out.  He  followed  him,  keeping  a  hundred 
feet  behind.  An  army  of  men  were  strolling 
homeward  over  the  railroad  tracks.  Yard-engines 
came  whistling  shrilly  as  they  bumped  over  the 
switches :  yardmen  walked  up  and  down  with  lan 
terns  that  illumined  their  black,  greasy  overalls. 
Suddenly  in  the  West,  up  the  main  track,  shone  a 
spark,  which  swelled  into  a  giant  locomotive,  the 
men  scattered,  and  just  before  Jo  a  passenger  train 
shrieked  by,  a  lightning  bolt  thundering  as  it  went. 
Its  tail  lights  were  swallowed  toward  the  dark 
East.  Then  Jo  kept  on  his  way,  and  followed  the 
singer  through  the  mill-gate. 

Right  beyond  the  gate  ran  a  street  of  low  two- 
story  frame  houses  facing  the  mills  —  dreary  little 
houses,  smoke-blackened,  flimsy,  with  broken 
wooden  porches  above  the  muddy  gutter.  The 
twilight  was  short,  because  of  the  smoke  and  soot 
that  filled  the  air,  and  already  windows  all  along 
the  row  were  oblongs  of  hollow  light.  Shades 
were  up ;  people  were  moving  about  within. 

The  singer  turned  up  this  street,  and  Jo  stepped 
faster,  his  fists  clenched,  his  breathing  ponderous. 
He  began  to  pant  as  he  caught  up  with  the  little 


n6  PAY  ENVELOPES 

man,  and  then,  all  at  once,  the  singer  turned  and 
entered  a  lighted  house.  Jo  stepped  on  the  porch, 
crouched,  and  peered  through  the  window. 

A  bed  stood  in  the  window-corner,  an  open 
doorway  was  in  the  far  wall,  and  the  room  was 
painted  a  glaring  blue.  Beside  the  inner  door 
stood  a  brand-new  black  stove,  and  at  this  a  young 
woman  was  cooking  supper.  She  wore  a  little 
cook's  cap  on  her  black  hair,  which  strayed  from 
under  in  little  curls ;  she  had  small  black  eyes,  and 
small  lips,  and  a  little  tip  of  nose  —  a  graceful, 
little  woman.  As  the  singer  entered,  she  turned, 
smiling.  The  boy  —  for  he  was  only  a  boy,  with 
brown-gold  hair  and  the  wistful  eyes  of  a  wolf  — 
nodded,  went  close  to  her,  and  whispered  some 
thing.  The  woman  laughed  softly,  and  the  boy 
went  in  through  the  open  doorway  into  the  inner 
room. 

Jo  stepped  into  the  house.  The  woman  turned 
again,  noticed  his  vivid  face,  and  stared  at  him. 

Jo  sat  down  slowly  on  a  chair. 

"  Pod  sern  "  (come  here) ,  he  muttered. 

The  woman  looked  frightened;  her  face  paled. 

"Pod  sern!" 

She  advanced  slowly,  her  eyes  on  his  face,  her 
breath  coming  in  gasps.  He  seized  her  and  drew 
her  close,  his  huge  greasy  hands  banding  her  bare 
arms,  his  eyes  meeting  hers. 

"  Are  you  feeling  well?" 

She  spoke  on  an  indrawn  breath : 


SLAG  117 

"What's  the  matter?  Why  do  you  ask  me 
that?" 

"  Are  you  well?     Are  you  sure  you  are  well?  " 

He  drew  her  closer. 

"  Why  do  you  do  this?  "  she  cried. 

He  pulled  her  downward. 

"  Ha  —  you're  a  pretty  woman  —  it's  good  to 
have  a  pretty  wife !  You're  feeling  well,  aren't 
you  ?  You  can  smile !  —  Smile!  " 

She  tried  to  pull  herself  away. 

"Jo!     Jo!" 

He  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  terrible  cry. 

"  Parom  ta  udrel  —  parom  ta  udrel!  "  (God's 
curses  on  you ! ) 

And  with  his  fist  struck  her  twice  on  the  shoul 
der.  She  cried  out,  staggered,  lurched  to  the  bed 
and  leaned  on  it,  and  he  swung  out  through  the 
doorway  into  the  rear  room. 

He  seemed  to  be  in  a  trance.  A  long  rough 
table  ran  down  this  room,  with  a  backless  wooden 
bench  on  either  side.  Jo  sat  down  on  one  of  the 
benches,  and  leaned  his  head  on  the  table.  The 
room  was  in  darkness:  there  was  a  tramp  of  feet 
above,  and  out  in  the  rear  before  the  outhouse  a 
group  of  men  were  washing  themselves  at  a  little 
iron  pump.  There  was  a  noise  of  splashed  water, 
of  rough  laughter  and  husky  foreign  words,  foot 
steps,  and  as  an  undercurrent  the  ceaseless  over 
whelming  roaring  of  the  mills.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
hot  summer's  night. 


n8  PAY  ENVELOPES 

Men  began  coming  in  out  of  the  yard,  and  one 
went  into  the  kitchen  and  returned  with  a  lighted 
lamp  which  he  carefully  set  in  a  tall  wall-bracket. 
In  the  high  dingy  light  the  men  showed  shadowy 
and  huge  in  their  grease-black  undershirts  and 
trousers.  They  wore  large  suspenders;  their 
knotty  throats  were  bare;  their  faces  were  stolid 
and  strong.  They  sat  down  at  the  table,  which 
was  laid  with  oilcloth,  with  heavy  dishes  and  cheap 
cutlery. 

At  once  the  woman  came  in  with  a  long  plat 
ter  which  she  set  in  the  center  of  the  table.  It 
contained  big  slices  of  beef  swimming  in  a  brown 
gravy.  The  men  leaned  forward  simultaneously, 
almost  standing,  their  faces  eager  and  hungry, 
forked  each  as  much  as  he  could  jab,  slashed  the 
beef  on  his  plate,  cut  big  hunks  and  slewed  it  up. 
The  oilcloth  was  blood-splashed  and  mouths 
dripped.  But  Jo  ate  nothing,  not  even  sipping  at 
the  big  jug-like  cup  of  steaming  coffee.  In  that 
wordless  noise  of  supper,  he  sat  in  his  trance,  one 
fist  on  the  table,  his  face  pale,  his  lips  set  tight,  his 
eyes  unseeing.  The  wolf-eyed  boy  sat  nearly  op 
posite,  and  though,  each  time  the  woman  entered, 
the  wistful  eyes  were  lifted  and  followed  her  about 
the  room,  Jo  did  not  notice. 

Once  the  woman  stopped  and  murmured: 

u  You  must  eat  some  supper." 

Jo  did  not  stir,  and  she  went  on,  shrugging  her 
shoulders. 


SLAG  119 

After  supper  the  men  lit  their  pipes  and  went 
out  on  the  front  porch.  One  of  them  rolled  out  a 
small  keg  of  beer,  and  another  brought  glasses. 
A  third  sat  down  on  the  porch-bench,  and  began 
clashing  out  wildly  on  an  accordion, 

"Her  eyes  are  like  the  sunset  star!' 

Fifteen  men's  voices   rose  hoarsely  and  blended 
into  the  song. 

At  the  sound  Jo  stirred  sharply,  rose,  passed 
through  the  kitchen  without  looking  at  the  woman, 
and  went  out  and  sat  down  at  the  darkest  end  of 
the  porch.  Right  opposite  lay  the  railroad  yards; 
red  and  green  signal-lamps  glistened;  locomotives 
rumbled  back  and  forth;  and  in  back  loomed  the 
mills  with  flaring  windows  and  chimneys  rising 
through  shining  clouds  of  flame-lit  smoke.  Trains 
passed;  soot  and  smoke  were  in  all  the  air,  blot 
ting  the  stars;  sparkles  and  flames  shone  all  about; 
and  the  earth  seemed  to  shake  with  the  iron-thun 
der,  the  crash  and  rolling  roar,  the  clank  and  clat 
ter.  The  music  of  the  accordion  seemed  to  clash 
with  the  music  of  the  mills,  and  the  sound-strife 
sent  a  wild  excitement  into  the  heart.  The  men 
felt  riotous.  Penned  in  the  fires  all  day,  stupefied, 
stifled,  exhausted,  overworked,  their  whole  being 
craved  for  wildness,  for  irresponsibility,  for  for- 
getfulness.  They  began  drinking  heavily,  and  the 
player  played  on. 


120  PAY  ENVELOPES 

There  was  one  man,  however,  who  spent  his 
evenings  in  the  little  night-school  for  foreigners 
up  on  the  hill.  This  man  —  David  Wuk  —  was 
not  drinking.  He  sat  near  Jo,  and  as  a  little 
light  fell  on  Jo's  face,  he  happened  to  notice  the 
intense  gaze  and  livid  hate.  He  followed  the 
gaze  to  the  little  singer  who  sat  on  the  bench  be 
side  the  accordion  player  and  was  singing  his  heart 
out. 

Dave  understood  in  a  flash.  His  heart  tight 
ened  in  his  breast,  and  his  breath  caught.  He  fas 
tened  his  eyes  on  Jo. 

As  the  time  went  on  Jo  leaned  a  little  more 
forward,  his  eyes  glaring  at  the  black  silhouette 
of  the  boy.  Suddenly  the  woman  stood  in  the 
doorway. 

"  Hello,  Liddie,"  said  the  boy. 

"Hello,  Tony!" 

The  woman  went  back  in  the  kitchen,  but  she 
had  left  a  strange  change  behind  her.  At  that 
moment  Jo  became  totally  an  animal  —  sheer  in 
sane  jealousy,  blood-lust  and  hate. 

Yet  he  could  feel  in  his  own  blind  way  that  once 
he  had  been  different;  that  he  had  fallen  upon  evil 
days;  that  vast  events  had  changed  him.  Only 
two  years  ago  he  had  been  a  decent  peasant  out  in 
Austro-Hungary,  there  among  the  bare  hills,  but 
out  in  the  ever-varying  weather  and  the  world's 
winds,  and  in  the  bronzing  health  of  the  sun,  and 
in  the  quiet  of  stars.  He  —  like  the  rest  —  had 


SLAG  121 

lived  in  the  ancient  dead  village,  and  had  his  plot 
of  earth  outside  where  he  struggled  with  the  tough 
soil.  A  hard  life;  a  starved  life  —  worth  sixty 
cents  a  day;  no  fresh  meat;  no  coffee.  And  his 
young  wife  in  Autumn  had  to  go  three  and  four 
miles  to  the  forest  to  lug  home  on  her  back  a  linen 
bag  full  of  dead  leaves  to  spread  as  winter  beds 
for  the  horses ;  and  she  had  to  bear  home  immense 
loads  of  branches,  chop  them  small,  tie  them  in 
bundles,  and  stack  them  about  the  walls  of  the 
house  to  break  the  winter  winds.  A  hard  life;  a 
starved  life.  But  it  was  in  the  sun  and  the  wind, 
and  he  was  decent  and  good. 

In  America  he  received  a  dollar  and  a  half  a 
day;  he  had  meat  daily;  he  had  coffee  daily.  A 
luxurious  life !  But  then  it  cost  much  to  live,  and 
one  was  homesick.  One  wanted  to  save  a  hundred 
dollars  and  go  home  and  buy  a  farm  and  live  on 
the  500  crowns  for  the  rest  of  life.  So  one  took 
lodgers  —  fifteen  crowded  into  two  rooms.  And 
strange  things  happened  —  surely  this  was  a  land 
of  hate  —  a  land  of  swindlers.  A  Hunky  had  to 
pay  excessively  for  furniture  and  food;  he  had  to 
give  a  foreman  five  or  ten  dollars  for  a  job;  he 
was  arrested  by  the  Squire  just  for  the  fee  that  was 
in  it.  And  worst  of  all  the  work  was  indoors;  in 
terrific  heat;  —  it  exhausted  a  man;  it  left  him  at 
night  careless  and  wild.  He  wanted  to  go  on  a 
spree;  he  wanted  to  riot  and  forget.  So  he  got 
drunk  and  did  unmentionable  things.  Yes,  he  be- 


122  PAY  ENVELOPES 

came  an  animal  in  his  crowded  lodging  house. 
And  so  had  Jo  become.  Dimly  he  felt  it  now  — 
how  he  had  been  tossed  into  the  mills  like  the  iron- 
ore,  and  melted,  and  the  pure  iron  drained  from 
his  soul,  and  only  the  slag  left.  Truly  he  was 
slag  —  he  was  the  human  slag  of  the  mills.  He, 
too,  overworked,  overdrank,  and  lived  like  a 
beast. 

And  yet  was  it  his  fault  ?  Had  he  not  come  to 
America  like  a  young  ignorant  child  to  a  new 
Mother?  And  had  America  proved  to  be  a 
Mother?  Had  she  tried  to  help  him?  Had  she 
tried  to  throw  her  beautiful  light  on  his  eager 
face?  Had  she  put  out  a  great  arm  to  shelter 
him?  Or,  had  she  proved  a  cruel  step-Mother 
instead  of  a  Mother  —  hateful,  spitting  in  his  face, 
calling  him  "  Hunky  "  and  robbing  him? 

But  if  he  was  slag,  yet  there  was  a  spark  of  the 
hot  iron  left.  Beast  as  he  was  he  would  not  stand 
by  and  see  his  wife  unfaithful.  No  —  rather  kill 
her  —  rather  rise  like  a  demon  than  be  so  dead  to 
all  good.  And  he  would  kill  her!  He  would 
strike  her  down  at  his  feet!  He  would  tear  her 
heart  out!  Wild  she-devil!  By  heavens,  he 
would  not  bear  this.  False  to  him  —  false  — 
Liddie  —  his  Liddie ! 

He  leaned  still  further  forward,  edging  along 
the  porch.  Dave  was  breathless  now.  He  knew 
not  whether  to  cry  out,  to  wait,  or  to  go.  With  a 
fierce  animal  hate,  Jo  kept  looking  at  the  young 


SLAG  123 

head  against  the  window-light,  while  the  music 
clashed  out  and  the  mills  roared  in  with  it. 

Suddenly  the  woman  stood  in  the  doorway  again. 

"  Can  we  dance  now?  "  cried  a  man. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman. 

The  men,  all  save  Dave  and  Jo,  crowded  in  the 
kitchen,  and  the  woman  was  turning  to  go,  when 
the  boy  spoke  softly: 

"  Liddie !  " 

The  woman  started. 

"  What  you  want,  Tony?  " 

"Wait!" 

She  hesitated,  and  then  Dave  saw  Jo  slowly 
draw  a  big  jack-knife  from  his  back  pocket  and 
open  out  its  large  sharp  blade.  Dave  slid  away  in 
the  darkness,  hurried  to  the  little  school  on  the 
hill,  and  told  John  Warner,  the  goldish-haired, 
smooth-shaved,  spectacled  young  headworker  that 
there  would  be  murder  on  the  Row  if  he  didn't 
hurry. 

The  night  seemed  to  grow  hotter;  the  roar  of 
the  mills  louder.  It  seemed  as  if  the  world  were 
near  the  breaking  point  —  as  if  the  Earth  were 
rolling  toward  destruction.  Jo  leaned  still  nearer, 
the  jack-knife  in  his  fist. 

"Why  should  I  wait?"  murmured  Liddie. 

"  Because,"  came  the  soft  answer,  "  I  love  you." 

"  Shh !  "  Liddie  spoke  in  a  frightened  voice,  "  I 
have  told  you  not  to  speak  of  it.  He'll  kill  you 
yet,  Tony." 


i24  PAY  ENVELOPES 

("Ha!"  muttered  Jo,  "well  said,  little 
devil!") 

Tony  leaped  up  with  a  cry: 

"Liddie!" 

He  reached  for  her  hands.  And  then  it  came. 
Jo's  brain  seemed  to  explode.  He  was  insane  at 
the  moment:  he  was  going  to  plunge  the  knife  into 
their  hearts  and  roll  them  together  at  his  feet :  and 
it  was  because  he  loved  her.  False  to  him ! 
False!  Liddie  —  his  Liddie!  False  to  him! 
He  arose,  howling, 

"  U wires,  you're  going  to  die !  " 

Liddie  shrieked;  Tony  backed  against  the 
bench;  and  the  big  man  bore  down  upon  them. 
The  blade  flashed  over  his  head,  swooped,  ripped 
along  Liddie's  shoulder  and  she  fell. 

There  was  a  sudden  hush.  Frightened  men 
poured  out  of  the  house  about  the  fallen  woman. 
Tony  was  sobbing,  a  terrified  boy.  Jo  stood  si 
lent, —  dazed  and  trembling,  the  knife  dropping 
to  the  floor.  His  eyes  were  on  a  little  twisting 
trickle  of  fresh  blood  that  ran  over  the  boards. 

And  then  John  Warner  stepped  up  on  the 
porch.  He  pushed  the  other  men  aside,  knelt  and 
examined  the  wound.  Then  he  arose,  turned  to 
Dave  who  stood  behind  him,  and  spoke  in  fluent 
Slovak : 

"  Get  some  woman  of  the  neighborhood  — 
wash  this  out  with  hot  water  —  and  put  her  to 
bed !  It's  only  a  deep  scratch !  " 


SLAG  125 

Dave  went  off. 

There  was  a  deep  silence,  the  ring  of  faces  all 
on  the  bloody  floor. 

Warner  touched  Jo. 

"  Why  did  you  do  it?" 

The  voice  was  searching,  and  touched  with  ten 
derness. 

Jo  looked  at  the  headworker,  and  spoke  in  a 
colorless  low  tone: 

"  She  made  love  to  Tony." 

Liddie  cried  out  suddenly: 

"No.     No!" 

"  No !  "  sobbed  Tony.  "  /  made  love  to  her, 
She  wouldn't  let  me." 

"  That's  true,"  said  a  bulky  man. 

"  Yes,"  said  a  third. 

Jo  hung  his  head,  trembled,  and  moaned  softly. 
The  headworker  came  very  near. 

"  Jo,"  he  murmured,  "  come  with  me." 

He  stepped  off  the  porch,  and  Jo  followed  him. 
They  walked  in  silence  to  the  corner  and  then  up 
the  hill  to  the  frame  schoolhouse.  Its  windows 
were  all  glowing.  Warner  pushed  open  the  door 
and  they  entered  a  dim-lit  wooden  hall.  There 
was  a  noise  of  many  voices  —  men's  voices  —  in 
the  adjoining  room;  a  warm  friendly  sound  broken 
up  by  hearty  house-shaking  laughter.  Warner 
stood  still,  Jo  beside  him.  The  headworker 
turned  quickly,  and  looked  at  the  abashed  face  of 
the  laborer.  Then  he  spoke  quietly: 


126  PAY  ENVELOPES 

"  What  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  do  with 
you." 

Jo  looked  down  at  the  floor. 

"  Put  me  in  the  jail,"  he  muttered  sullenly. 

Warner  suddenly  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Jo,"  he  said  sharply,  "  I'm  going  to  take  you 
out  of  jail.  Follow  me." 

He  turned,  opened  the  door  of  the  adjoining 
room,  and  nodded  to  Jo  to  enter.  They  stepped 
into  a  large  well-lit  many-windowed  schoolroom. 
Jo  opened  his  big  eyes  wide.  He  saw  many  poor 
laborers  standing  behind  the  desks,  and  all  looked 
so  happy  that  it  made  one  feel  like  crying.  They 
all  had  their  jackets  in  their  hands.  So  did  the 
young  teacher  —  a  tall  lean  blue-eyed  boy. 

Then  the  teacher  said: 

"  I  put  on  my  coat." 

And  at  once,  suiting  the  action  to  the  words,  the 
class  cried  in  an  alien  chorus : 

"  I  put  on  my  coat." 

Jo  found  himself  behind  a  desk.  His  eyes  were 
riveted  on  the  blue-eyed  teacher.  This  young 
man  suddenly  began  to  unlace  his  shoe.  At  once 
the  pupils  put  their  feet  on  the  desks,  and  Jo  did 
likewise.  Then  the  young  man  said: 

"  I  unlace  my  shoe." 

And  somehow  Jo  understood  that  he  must  say 
this  too.  So  he  joined  the  chorus. 

"  I  unlace  my  shoe." 

The  words  seemed  queer  in  his  mouth,  and  in- 


SLAG  127 

stantly,  like  a  blaze  of  light,  he  knew  that  he  was 
learning  English.  It  made  him  feel  queer  about 
the  heart.  Was  it  possible  that  in  this  terrible 
country  any  one  wanted  to  help  him?  It  made 
him  feel  like  choking.  He  gave  a  low  laugh. 
Was  he  being  shown  a  new  America  —  a  place  of 
hope  and  of  light  —  yes,  a  place  of  love?  Was 
he  something  more  than  slag  in  the  eyes  of  his  new 
country?  It  went  through  him  like  a  hot  rod  of 
steel  burning  his  heart.  Suddenly  he  was  all  alert, 
and  with  a  strange  defiance  grappled  with  un- 
mouthed  words.  He  shouted  at  the  top  of  his 
lungs  —  he  dressed  and  undressed  —  he  did  not 
miss  an  expression  on  the  teacher's  face. 

And  then,  when  the  crowd  trooped  out,  and  the 
teacher  turned  off  the  lights,  Jo  went  in  the  hall 
and  hung  around.  Presently  Mr.  Warner  came 
out. 

"Yes,  Jo,"  he  said,  "what's  the  matter?" 

Jo  looked  on  the  floor;  he  tried  to  speak;  he 
gasped  and  stammered;  but  it  came  at  last,  strange 
beautiful,  broken: 

"  I  didn't  know  —  I  didn't  know  it  could  be 
like  this  in  America." 

He  heaved  then  as  if  he  were  going  to  sob  and 
hurried  out  into  the  night. 

The  mills  were  still  roaring;  the  smoke-rolling 
heavens  shuddered  red;  the  engines  panted  and 
twinkled;  the  night  was  dripping  hot.  Jo  turned 
down  the  desolate  street.  There  was  still  a  light 


128  PAY  ENVELOPES 

in  the  front  room.  Softly  he  stepped  up  and 
pushed  open  the  door  and  entered.  He  entered 
very  humbly.  The  small  room  was  hushed;  a 
strange  woman  sat  doubled  up  near  the  bright 
black  stove;  and  in  the  bed  lay  Liddie. 

Jo  stood  silent  a  while  looking  down  on  his 
wife.  She  looked  up  at  him.  Neither  spoke. 
But  suddenly  he  began  to  tremble  visibly,  he  put 
his  hand  to  his  mouth,  he  turned  away,  and  all  at 
once  cruel  and  terrible  sobs  burst  from  his  chest 
and  his  lips.  He  flung  himself  at  the  bedside. 

"  I'll  be  good,  Liddie,"  he  sobbed,  "  I'll  be 
good." 

"  Ah,"  murmured  Liddie,  "  Tony's  only  a  boy. 
But  you  —  "  she  gave  a  wild  cry  that  made  the 
woman  at  the  stove  sit  up  and  rub  her  eyes. 
"Jof* 

She  drew  him  close  with  her  free  arm. 

Then,  a  moment  later,  he  stood  straight,  sob 
bing  and  laughing. 

"  Look,  look,"  he  cried  in  Slovak. 

He  began  pulling  off  his  coat,  and  as  he  did  so 
he  shouted  gloriously: 

"  I  unlace  my  shoes." 


A  WOMAN 


A  WOMAN 

A  WOMAN  stepped  from  the  trolley  car,  pulled 
off  a  heavy  basket  of  wash,  grasped  it  with 
both  hands,  and  jerked  her  way  across  the  railroad 
tracks.  The  car  slid  on  into  the  night,  and  left 
the  struggling  woman  alone.  Just  behind  her  lay 
acres  of  steel  mills  along  the  Monongahela  River; 
just  before  her,  over  the  tracks,  rose  a  high  hill. 
A  meager  but  stinging  snow  was  in  the  air.  The 
woman's  eyes  were  alert  up  and  down  the  railroad. 
As  she  gained  the  far  embankment  the  hillside 
above  flashed  in  a  strange  lightning,  revealing  bar 
ren,  stony  slopes,  smoke-dead  shrubs,  and  lonely 
shanties  clinging  to  the  heights. 

This  lightning  went  and  came  as  she  climbed, 
grew  to  a  glare  one  might  have  read  by,  faded 
to  a  wan  glimmer,  vanished  in  blackness.  The 
woman  puffed  and  panted,  and  finally  set  the  bas 
ket  down.  Then  she  turned  for  a  moment.  Be 
low  her  lay  the  clustered  mill  buildings,  and  among 
them  stood  the  Bessemer  converter  shed,  from 
whose  open  mouth  two  terrific  tongued  flames  shot 
upward,  swirling  through  the  snow  another  snow 
—  flakes  of  fire  —  that  curled,  crumpled,  and 
splashed  on  the  shed's  roof. 


132  PAY  ENVELOPES 

The  woman,  still  panting,  her  basket  at  her  feet, 
seemed,  in  that  flare,  a  wild  animal  alert  and  alone. 
She  was  tall,  her  face  was  cut  hard  about  the 
bones,  her  narrow  lips  were  open,  her  breath  came 
fast,  her  eyes  were  coal-black,  her  narrow  nose 
quivered  at  the  nostrils.  The  fire  glory  played 
over  her  face  and  bared  each  fold  of  her  faded 
black  dress  and  each  escaped  wisp  of  black  hair 
under  the  head-shawl.  About  her  eyes  was  the 
red  of  a  night's  tears  and  a  look  of  savage  revolt 
mixed  with  terror  and  love. 

She  suddenly  turned,  grasped  the  basket  up 
again  and  went  stumbling,  jerking,  pulling,  strain 
ing.  From  level  to  level  she  climbed,  ever  more 
fatigued,  and  in  the  sudden  lightning  that  threw 
her  shadow  before  her  on  the  hill  she  seemed  like 
a  type  of  the  world's  struggle.  As  she  paused 
again,  and  turned,  the  sweat  broke  out  over  her 
face  and  she  panted  heavily.  Out  of  the  South 
came  a  long,  hoarse  whistle,  a  spark  growing  as  it 
flew,  and  a  long  train  of  cars  went  gloriously  by. 
The  woman  saw  comfortable  people  —  flashing 
faces.  And  then  the  train  rushed  on  into  the  dark 
ness.  The  woman  turned  and  climbed  on. 

After  what  seemed  an  hour  —  after  fifteen 
minutes  —  she  reached  a  little  street  of  hardened 
mud-ruts,  a  gash  in  the  hillside.  Along  this  she 
hurried,  and  turned  in  at  a  green,  ramshackle  two- 
story  frame  house  that  jutted  out  toward  the  mills. 
The  front  door  was  open,  the  hall  was  dark.  She 


A  WOMAN  133 

scraped  against  either  wall  as  she  went,  and  then 
climbed  up  a  stairway.  She  was  panting  loudly. 
The  warmth  of  the  house  enveloped  her  and  there 
was  a  sound  as  of  far  voices. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  the  woman  set  down 
the  basket,  left  it,  felt  for  a  door,  and  flung  it 
open.  Her  panting  changed  to  a  hoarse  sobbing. 
The  room  was  long  and  narrow,  with  a  window 
toward  the  mills.  A  wooden  bed  stood  next  the 
door,  and  next  the  window  was  a  little  stove  glow 
ing  red  through  its  grate.  A  slanting  heap  of 
coal  and  wood  lay  in  a  corner;  a  small  table  stood 
against  the  opposite  wall.  There  were  a  few 
old  chairs,  scraps  of  old  carpets  on  the  floor;  a 
torn  wall  paper,  a  gaudy  picture  of  the  Madonna 
and  Child  over  the  bed,  a  little  shelf  on  which 
stood  a  plaster  crucifix,  a  few  nails  overhung  with 
clothes.  A  door  was  opposite  the  bed  opening 
into  the  adjoining  room.  Deep  in  the  heart  of 
this  warm,  airless  room  a  little  girl  was  playing 
on  the  floor  with  a  baby.  The  mill-lightning 
through  the  shadeless  window  threw  a  wild  flare 
into  the  place  —  the  children  were  silhouetted,  the 
plaster  crucifix  stood  in  relief. 

As  the  woman  entered  she  gave  a  hoarse  cry : 

"  Steve!" 

Then  she  cried  out  in  Slovak : 

"  Mary!     They  didn't  take  my  baby?" 

The  little  girl  laughed,  showing  her  teeth. 

"Nie/     Pozrif     (No!     Look!)" 


134  PAY  ENVELOPES 

She  seized  the  tiny  boy,  in  his  heavily  swaddled 
cottons,  and  held  him  forth.  The  woman  cried 
out  again,  leaped  forward,  snatched  up  the  bundle 
of  boy,  sat  on  the  bed,  drew  him  close,  looked  at 
his  sooty,  greasy  face,  and  began  smothering  him 
with  kisses.  Her  sobs,  at  first  choked  and  wild, 
came  easier,  and  she  began  talking  rapidly  in  a 
melodious  alien  voice. 

"  Stevey  —  boy  —  darling  —  pod  sem!  (come 
here!)  Citis  sa  dobre?  (Are  you  feeling 
well?)  Ah,  God!  Don't  cry,  little  one!  — 
They  didn't  take  my  boy !  They  didn't  take  my 
little  baby!  —  Is  your  mother  a  bad  wroman? 
No!  no!  no!  Oh,  they  shan't  have  you,  Steve  — 
Nief"  She  laughed  and  clutched  him  closer, 
"  Nie!  Nie!  " 

There  was  a  loud  knock  on  the  door  opposite 
the  bed,  and  the  mother  drew  the  child  so  close 
that  he  kicked  and  cried  out.  Her  face  became 
livid  with  fright.  Then  the  door  opened  and  a 
shabby,  bowed  man  of  fifty  —  an  Irishman  — 
leaned  half-way  in.  His  eyes  were  dim,  his  face 
shrunken  and  wrinkled,  and  he  was  nearly  bald. 

"  Mary,"  he  said  to  the  young  girl,  shaking 
his  head  toward  the  woman,  "  what  ails  your 
mother?  " 

The  woman's  face  relaxed  and  took  on  a  sad 
ness  poignant  and  tragic.  But  Mary  stood  with 
her  thin  arms  crossed,  an  absurd  little  figure  in  a 
heavy  green  dress  much  too  big  for  her. 


A  WOMAN  135 

"  Oh,"  said  Mary,  with  all  the  public-school 
English  she  had  gained  in  a  twice-a-week  training, 
"  they  says  she's  a  bad  woman  and  she  goes  with 
fellars.  They  told  the  charity  man  on  her  and 
he  told  the  Squire  and  he  says  he'll  take  Stevey 
away  and  me,  too,  later !  " 

The  man  entered,  a  towel  in  one  hand,  with 
which  now  and  then  he  daubed  his  head  and  neck. 

"  Who  said  that,  eh?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Peoples." 

"  What  people?" 

Mary  showed  her  teeth. 

"  Don't  you  know  he  was  back?  " 

"Your  pap?     When?" 

"  Yesterday.     Everybody  knows  that." 

He  came  closer,  whistling  softly. 

"  So  the  man  come  back,  eh?  —  You  see,  I  was 
on  the  night  shift.  He  come  back,  eh?  Did  he 
hither?" 

Mary  spoke  proudly. 

"He  kicked  her \" 

"What  else?" 

"  He  yelled  on  her  —  he  went  out  on  the  street 
and  hollered  on  her.  He  hollered  so  loud,  every 
body  went  out  and  heared  him.  He  called  her 
bad  names,  and  then  everybody  called  her  bad 
names,  and  then  they  told  the  charity  man  and  the 
charity  man  told  the  Squire  and  they'll  take  her 
baby  away!  " 

The  woman  leaned  forward,  crying  sharply. 


i3 6  PAY  ENVELOPES 

u  No  take  my  baby,  no !  "  Her  voice  rose  to  a 
wild  cry.  "No!  No!" 

The  man  turned  and  stared  at  her.  Then  a 
sweet  smile  showed  on  his  wizened  face. 

"  Tressa,  don't  you  get  a-scared.  It's  talk, 
every  bit  of  it !  Take  the  baby?  Never!  Don't 
you  get  a-scared !"  He  clenched  his  fists.  "The 
dirty  liars !  "  he  muttered.  "  But  don't  you  get 
a-scared !  " 

The  woman  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  slow,  and  in 
pain: 

"  Me  cry  all  night  —  me  no  stop  crying  —  me 
afraid  they  take  my  baby.  Me  cry  all,  all  night." 

The  man  looked  at  her  pityingly,  rubbing  his 
neck  with  the  towel. 

"  Don't  you  cry  any  more,  Tressa.  It's  all  talk. 
Don't  you  cry,  Tressa,  any  more." 

The  mother  patted  the  child's  cheeks  and  smiled 
sadly. 

"  Ah,  Steve  —  little  baby  —  I  mustn't  cry  any 
more  —  no!  no!  —  see,"  she  said,  lifting  up  her 
face,  radiant  and  softened  in  the  firelight,  "  see 
what  a  man  I  got!  " 

The  Irishman  stooped  and  chucked  the  baby 
under  the  chin. 

"  And  a  man  he  is,  sure  enough.  I've  got  that 
will  make  him  laugh !  " 

He  pulled  from  a  pocket  a  banana,  peeled  it, 
and  the  baby  clutched  it  and  ate  at  it  hungrily. 
The  mother  laughed  softly. 


A  WOMAN  137 

"Ha!"  cried  the  man,  "  now  everything's  all 
right  and  we're  all  happy.  So  long!  " 

And  he  passed  out  to  his  room,  closing  the  door 
behind  him. 

The  mother  set  the  baby  on  the  floor,  went  out 
in  the  hall,  brought  back  the  wash,  and  then  stood 
before  the  stove  warming  her  hands  behind  her. 
She  gazed  at  the  little  child,  her  eyes  hungry  with 
mother-love,  for  she  was  shaken  with  that  divine 
animal-passion.  But  Mary  stood  at  the  window, 
her  nose  flattened  on  the  cold  pane,  and  watched 
the  far  fires,  the  telegraph  wires  that  crossed  them, 
the  shining  rails,  the  black  whirling  drops  of 
snow. 

Suddenly  the  woman  darted  to  the  hall-door, 
closed  it  softly,  and  bolted  it  tight.  Then  she 
went  back  to  the  stove  and  seemed  to  go  into  a 
trance  as  she  eyed  her  child. 

She  had  been  in  America  four  years.  Her  hus 
band  had  been  a  peddler  in  Austro-Hungary,  but 
here  he  worked  in  the  mills  and  made  a  dollar  and 
a  half  a  day.  Their  home  was  two  rooms  in  this 
ramshackle  tenement.  But  the  work  made  a  brute 
of  the  peddler  —  after  twelve  hours  a  day,  or  a 
night,  toiling  at  fires,  wrestling  with  weight,  he 
came  out  so  exhausted  and  thirsty  that  he  craved 
for  liquor.  He  became  a  drunkard  and  a  wife- 
beater,  and  then  finally  he  left  his  job  and  deserted 
his  home. 

It  happened  one  glorious  night  of  spring,  when 


i3 8  PAY  ENVELOPES 

through  the  smoky  air  and  over  the  barren  hills 
drifted  a  faint  stirring  of  new  life  —  a  beckoning 
quiver  that  hinted  to  the  heart  of  glories  hidden, 
a  trembling  in  the  soft  air  that  gave  glimpses  of  a 
world  other  than  the  world  of  the  mill,  the  starved 
life,  the  hand-to-hand  fight  with  tonnage.  To 
ward  morning  Tressa  awoke  and  felt  out,  and  the 
place  at  her  side  was  empty.  Darting  to  the  win 
dow  she  saw  a  black  figure  emerge  from  the  shad 
ows  of  the  hill.  This  figure  moved  onto  the  rail 
road  tracks  and  suddenly  became  a  black  silhouette 
against  the  glow  of  the  mill.  A  bag  swung  to 
and  fro.  Tressa  watched  until  the  man  vanished 
toward  the  South.  Then,  in  spite  of  the  drunken 
ness  and  the  beatings,  she  cried  her  heart  out. 
For,  even  as  in  the  earth,  there  was  stirring  in  her 
side  a  new  life,  and  the  father  had  left  her. 

Then  came  the  harshness  of  the  life  of  this 
world.  She  had  no  money.  There  was  the  rent, 
five  dollars  a  month,  there  was  food,  three  dollars 
a  week  for  potatoes  and  coffee  and  oatmeal,  with 
now  and  then  a  scrap  of  meat.  Clothes  she  would 
manage,  sewing,  patching,  begging  from  neigh 
bors.  She  moved  with  Mary  into  the  one  room 
and  rented  the  other  to  the  Irishman  for  a  dollar 
a  week,  and  took  in  washing  from  Braddock  three 
miles  away.  It  was  hard,  bitter  hard.  But  Mary 
went  on  with  her  schooling  and  the  mother  did  not 
complain. 

Five  months  later,  one  of  the  first  cold  nights 


A  WOMAN  139 

of  autumn  —  a  night  that  drove  the  world  indoors, 
the  first  night  for  coal-fire  —  the  husband  slouched 
in.  She  took  him  in  without  a  murmur  and  he 
stayed  a  week.  Then  he  beat  her  again  and  van 
ished.  It  was  three  months  this  time.  He  came 
back  in  December,  around  Christmas-time  —  that 
time  when  above  all  others  the  tramp  longs  for  the 
glow  behind  the  window,  the  warmth  of  people 
gathered  about  a  table,  the  touch  of  hands,  the 
words  of  the  home.  He  came  in  bedraggled, 
torn,  hairy.  Again,  without  question,  she  took 
him  in,  and  Mary  slept  on  a  bundle  of  clothes  on 
the  floor.  But  the  night  the  child  was  born  he 
left  her,  his  drunken  oaths  rolling  through  the 
house. 

She  ceased  to  love  him  then.  With  all  the 
energy  in  her  fierce  nature  she  turned  her  passions 
into  mother-love,  and  fed  her  heart  and  soul  upon 
her  baby.  To  have  the  little  one  feed  at  her 
breast  was  her  divine  moment  as  she  sat  there  un 
der  the  gaudy  Madonna  and  Child.  She  went  in 
rags  that  her  children  might  be  warm ;  she  was  un 
sparing  with  wood  and  coal  that  the  room  might 
be  a  comfortable  home.  She  tried  to  forget  the 
husband;  she  crowded  her  meditation  with 
thoughts  of  the  baby's  looks,  his  pranks,  his 
growth,  his  future. 

And  then,  breaking  in  on  her  toil  and  her  joy, 
her  husband  had  come  in  the  day  before.  She 
had  driven  the  miserable  creature  out  with  terrible 


1 40  PAY  ENVELOPES 

fury,  tearing  at  him  with  her  nails,  beating  on  his 
back,  and  he  had  gone  forth  howling  and  shouting 
vile  names  at  her.  And  the  motley  lodgers  of  the 
house,  rushing  out  of  their  starved  lives  to  share 
this  excitement,  had  borne  the  tale  to  John  War 
ner,  the  head  of  the  Industrial  School,  and  he  had 
carried  it  to  the  local  magistrate,  the  Squire. 
John  Warner,  the  quiet,  spectacled,  clean-shaven 
young  man,  had  stopped  in  the  night  before  to  see 
the  lay-out.  In  a  quiet  way  he  had  warned  the 
woman  of  his  intention  of  taking  the  baby  at  once 
and  of  providing  for  Mary  as  soon  as  he  could  ar 
range  to  get  her  in  some  institution.  The  baby 
then  was  the  immediate  victim,  and  the  threat 
struck  the  mother  to  her  soul.  She  broke  under 
the  blow;  she  lay  all  night  with  the  child  in  her 
arms,  sobbing  piteously.  She  prayed  to  the  Vir 
gin,  she  implored  the  plaster  Christ.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  her  life  had  been  lived,  that  it  lay  behind 
her,  and  that  she  was  gone  to  eternal  torment.  If 
it  really  had  been  her  life  she  would  have  died 
gladly.  But  they  asked  her  to  live  without  that 
which  made  life  possible.  They  wanted  to  take 
the  baby  away.  They  wanted  to  take  it  out  to 
the  harsh,  dark  world,  out  among  strange  people, 
out  among  enemies.  She  knew  how  he  would 
search  about  with  his  lips  trying  to  find  her  breast, 
how  he  would  cry  for  her,  how  he  would  scream 
with  terror  because  she  was  not  there.  And  what 
good  would  it  do  him  ?  Who  would  know  how  to 


A  WOMAN  141 

love  and  protect  him  as  she  did?  Was  he  not  of 
her  flesh,  had  he  not  grown  within  her,  had  he  not 
dwelt  close  to  her  heart? 

She  became  a  very  animal  —  a  tigress  with 
her  cub.  When  she  left  for  work  that  day,  as 
leave  she  had  to,  she  was  insane  for  a  moment, 
laughing  and  crying.  It  had  been  a  day  of  frantic 
terror.  And  now,  standing  at  the  red  stove,  with 
the  firelight  flaring  on  the  mills  and  on  the  baby's 
head,  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  must  go  crazy. 
They  would  come  —  her  lodger  to  the  contrary  — 
they  would  surely  come  —  they  would  take  him 
away.  She  knew  these  men  —  what  did  they  un 
derstand  concerning  children? 

And  then  as  she  stood,  her  chin  out,  her  face 
tightened  about  staring  eyes,  her  lips  moving,  there 
was  a  trample  of  many  feet  outside.  Mary  turned 
in  a  flash,  and  the  mother  loosed  a  low  wail,  as  if 
the  heart  itself  was  crying  through  her  lips.  Then 
she  moved,  dragging  her  feet,  as  if  they  were 
loaded  down,  slowly,  slowly,  and  stooped,  and 
took  up  the  child  in  her  arms  and  backed  to  a 
rocker  next  the  stove  and  sat  down  and  let  her 
head  sink  low. 

Mary  whispered: 

"Ano  (yes),  it's  they." 

In  the  great  silence  —  for  the  world  was  muf 
fled  now  in  the  thickening  snow  —  there  was  a 
sharp  rap  at  the  door. 

"Should  I  open?"  whispered  Mary. 


142  PAY  ENVELOPES 

The  answer  came  as  through  set  teeth. 

" Parom  ta  udrel!  (God's  curses  on  you!) 
No!  Do  not  move!  " 

There  was  another  sharp  redoubling  rap,  and 
silence  again. 

The  mother  leaned  still  further  over,  and  the 
child  whimpered  and  tried  to  free  itself. 

"  Be  still,"  she  murmured. 

Then,  at  once,  she  was  terror  head  to  foot,  for 
the  knob  was  seized  and  the  door  roughly  shaken. 
A  husky  voice  cried  through  the  stillness : 

"  Open !     Open   the    door  —  quick !  " 

"  Oh,"  moaned  the  mother,  "  baby,  be  still!  " 

The  voice  rose  again,  the  door  rattling  with  the 
words : 

"  Open  the  door,  open,  open !  Shall  we  break 
it  in?" 

In  the  silence  someone  without  laughed  harshly 
and  the  mother  trembled.  She  felt  as  if  she  could 
no  longer  hold  the  boy  —  that  her  quivering 
hands  would  drop  him.  The  world  was  breaking 
in,  prying  into  her  life,  violating  the  sacred  things. 
The  door  was  groaning  against  the  bolt;  there 
was  a  slow  cracking,  a  muffled  sound  of  pressure,  a 
voice  cursing.  The  mother  felt  as  if  the  pressure 
were  on  her  ribs  and  they  were  breaking.  She 
could  not  bear  it  any  longer.  And  then  as  the 
door  burst  open  and  two  men  swung  violently  in, 
she  loosed  a  wild,  keen  shriek  that  went  tingling 


A  WOMAN  143 

through  the  house.  Then  her  head  went  down 
again  and  the  child  whimpered. 

The  two  men  stood  in  silence  a  moment. 
They  looked  sheepish.  The  Squire  was  a  bluff 
big  man,  red-faced  and  stout.  He  pulled  out  a 
handkerchief  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

"  Gee !  "  he  murmured  huskily  to  Warner, 
"  these  Hunkies  raise  Cain  with  a  man  1  " 

Warner  said  nothing.  He  had  a  curious  sense 
of  intruding.  He  wished  he  had  not  come.  Be 
hind  him  in  the  doorway  crowded  the  neighbors, 
women  and  men  and  children.  The  flare  played 
shadowy  over  their  absorbed  faces.  Before  him 
stood  Mary,  animated,  excited,  and  beside  her 
crouched  the  dim  alien  woman  with  the  whimper 
ing  child.  He  could  see  through  the  window  those 
terrible  fires,  fires  strong  enough  to  burn  iron  into 
steel,  and  he  felt  sharply  that  life  too  may  burn 
into  souls.  This  taking  a  child  from  its  mother 
was  a  bad  business.  But  it  had  to  be  done,  and 
the  sooner  the  better. 

He  spoke  softly: 

"  Mrs.  Durish,  I'm  more  sorry  than  I  can  say. 
But  you  know  why  we  came." 

There  was  a  deep  silence,  save  that  the  child  was 
whimpering. 

Warner  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Do  you  understand?  " 

Again  there  was  silence. 


i44  PAY  ENVELOPES 

"  Mrs.  Durish,  do  you  understand? " 

The  mother's  head  moved  a  little,  and  then 
came  words,  broken,  breathless,  gasping: 

"Me  Slav  —  no  speak  English." 

Warner  turned. 

"  Mary,"  he  murmured,  "  please  tell  her." 

Mary  spoke  fluently  in  Slovak: 

"  They  want  the  baby,  mother." 

But  the  mother  was  silent. 

The  Squire  shifted  from  foot  to  foot. 

"  Say,  Warner,"  he  muttered,  "  what's  the  use 
of  talking?  I'll  hold  the  woman  —  you  take  the 
kid." 

Warner  felt  a  quiver  pass  through  him.  He 
turned  to  the  Squire. 

"  Are  we  sure,  though,"  he  murmured,  "  that 
she's  guilty?  You  know  we  haven't  much  evi 
dence." 

"  Aw,  say,"  broke  in  the  Squire,  "  don't  these 
women  all  go  to  the  bad?  Why,  they're  animals, 
man.  Leave  it  to  me;  a  Hunk's  a  beast." 

Warner  cleared  his  throat  again. 

"  But  see  how  she  cares  for  that  child." 

"  Animal !  "  said  the  Squire.  "  It's  her  young, 
you  know." 

Warner  did  not  answer.     He  turned  to  Mary. 

"  Tell  her,"  he  murmured  gently,  "  that  we 
don't  want  to  use  force  —  tell  her  to  hand  us  the 
child." 


'•^  S 

&J, 

11 


JJ 


."S 


u  -C 


A  WOMAN  145 

Mary  spoke  quickly. 

"  They  don't  want  to  hit  you ;  you  should  give 
Stevey  to  them." 

But  the  mother  did  not  stir. 

"  Say!  "  cried  the  Squire,  "  this  is  putting  me  in 
a  sweat!  Come  on!  " 

He  took  a  step. 

"  See  here,  Mrs.,  give  me  the  kid  and  no  funny 
business !  " 

He  put  out  his  hand,  he  took  another  step. 
And  then  he  stopped  —  frozen. 

Tressa,  with  a  low  cry,  leaped  up.  She  stood 
straight.  She  held  the  child  at  her  breast.  She 
raised  her  head.  Her  black  eyes  lived,  her  nos 
trils  quivered  and  her  lips  moved.  She  was  a 
splendid  tigress,  defending  her  cub.  And  then  the 
very  deeps  of  human  nature,  the  deeps  below  the 
deeps,  swept  up  to  her  lips,  and  the  words  came 
packed  with  strength: 

"Me  no  German  —  me  no  Russ  —  me  no 
Slav  —  me  Catholic! "  She  raised  one  finger 
high,  pointing  upward,  her  face  lifted,  "  Church 
—  mine  —  God  —  mine." 

There  was  a  breathless  silence,  and  the  room 
seemed  to  palpitate  with  the  mystery  of  life.  The 
listeners  seemed  to  be  witnesses  of  the  human 
struggle  of  this  earth.  They  were  swept  with  the 
glory  of  her  superb  courage.  And  then  she  went 
on: 


146  PAY  ENVELOPES 

"  Me  have  man  of  my  country  —  he  no  good 

—  my  man  too  much  drink  whiskey  —  and  so  he 
no  good,  me  have  no  man  —  no  man!" 

Warner,  gazing  on  that  upright  figure,  that 
flushing  face,  that  mother,  felt  his  heart  grow 
small  with  pain.  And  then  again  she  spoke,  lift 
ing  her  voice,  a  compelling  music,  a  triumphant 
roll  of  strength : 

"  Me  have  two  man  —  me  no  want  more  man 

—  me  have  two  man  —  "     She  paused,  and  sol 
emnly  she  pointed  to  one  side  of  the  room  and 
then  the  other —  "  one  man  each  side  —  give  me 
love,  kiss  me, — "   and  then  she  pointed  to  the 
baby  and  to  Mary  —  "  look  —  two  man!  " 

She  stopped.  There  was  a  trembling  silence. 
And  then  the  child  began  to  whimper  again. 

Then  the  mother  saw  Warner  turn  slowly  to 
the  Squire,  and  put  a  hand  on  the  big  man's  arm, 
and  whisper  something.  The  woman  felt  the  ter 
ror  steal  upon  her  again.  She  stared  at  the 
Squire.  He  did  not  move  for  a  little.  Then  he 
took  off  his  hat  and  scratched  his  head,  and  sud 
denly  he  turned,  and  angrily  drove  the  people 
from  the  door  and  went  out  himself. 

In  the  flaring  place,  in  the  silence,  and  facing 
the  woman  whose  hair  seemed  to  burn  in  the  far 
fires,  Warner  advanced  softly.  She  started, 
clutching  the  child  closer.  She  trembled  violently. 
And  then  she  heard  his  voice,  soft,  a  very  whisper: 

"  Mrs.  Durish,  if  you  want  to  move  out  of  this 


A  WOMAN  147 

house  come  to  me  to-morrow.  And  as  for  your 
baby  —  keep  him,  keep  him,  keep  him!  " 

And  then  he  was  gone  and  the  door  was  shut. 

Under  the  Madonna  and  Child  the  living 
woman  sank  down  with  her  own  child,  and  as  she 
sobbed  pitifully  she  kissed  and  kissed  the  dirty 
face,  for  the  little  one  was  very  close  and  very  liv 
ing  and  he  was  safe  and  warm,  and  he  was  hers. 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS 


H 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS 

UNKEYTOWN  was  bathed  in  sunset. 
Right  and  left  of  the  broad  dirt  space 
stood  rows  of  gray,  box-like  houses;  down  the 
center,  between  them,  ran  a  line  of  outhouses  and 
pumps.  But  about  the  stoops  men  were  playing 
cards,  sweating,  laughing,  talking;  idlers  watched 
them;  children  romped  in  the  dirt;  women  stood  in 
open  doorways ;  and  the  smokes  of  supper  went  up 
from  the  chimneys. 

In  miniature,  this  was  the  human  scene  —  the 
human  comedy  —  here  were  men  drawn  from 
many  nations,  caught  together  in  the  crimson  of 
sundown,  hungry  for  supper,  ticking  off  the  aver 
age  moments  of  life.  Many  were  in  undershirts 
and  trousers.  They  smoked  corn-cob  pipes. 
They  drew  close  to  one  another.  Girls  and  boys 
talked  apart.  Mothers  called  their  children.  All 
were  busy;  all  were  absorbed  in  the  intense  minutias 
of  life.  And  yet  in  that  scene,  so  rich,  human, 
common,  heart-warming,  under  the  bustle  and  the 
laughter  —  the  great  tears  of  things  and  the  great 
glory  that  beckons  on  man,  were  stirring  at  that 
moment. 


152  PAY  ENVELOPES 

There  were  six  thousand  men  hereabouts.  They 
were  out  on  strike. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  sunset,  out  of  the  very 
flames  of  the  sun  —  for  the  burning  sphere  was 
scarcely  man-high  and  its  slanting  light  filled  the 
air  with  fire  —  a  girl  came  swinging  up  from  the 
end  of  the  street.  She  was  the  black  heart  of  the 
blaze.  At  every  group  of  men  she  stopped. 

"  Meeting  to-night  —  down  at  the  school." 

Her  voice  was  singularly  rich;  she  almost  sang 
the  phrases.  Someone  in  each  group  caught  the 
words,  and  flung  them  into  an  alien  tongue.  As 
she  hurried  ahead,  the  sun  was  swallowed  up  — 
twilight  and  shadows  fell  —  men  rose  —  children 
ran  home  —  women  called  for  their  families  — 
and  the  great  moment  of  supper  came  to  them  all. 

But  the  girl  went  on.  She  could  be  distinctly 
seen  now  —  middle-sized,  swinging,  in  cheap  blue 
skirt  and  a  little  limp  calico  waist  —  neck  bare 
deep  down,  arms  naked  to  the  elbow  —  splendid 
strong  head  and  face.  The  thick,  flat  hair,  parted 
in  the  center,  rose  higher  on  one  side  than  on  the 
other,  fell  around  her  temples,  over  the  ears,  to  a 
black  bow  in  back.  The  big  blue  eyes,  set  deep, 
were  aflame  with  life;  the  strong,  broad-based  nose 
quivered  at  nostrils;  the  mouth  was  a  wide  bow, 
with  rich  lips.  Altogether,  here  was  defiance, 
energy,  leadership,  and  the  direct  drive. 

She  disappeared  in  the  twilight,  her  rich  voice 
lingering  in  the  still  summer  air: 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  153 

"  Meeting  to-night  —  down  at  the  school.'1 
It  was  Joan  Marcy  of  the  Ladies'  Auxiliary. 

At  nine  that  night  a  man  sat  at  a  rickety  table 
in  a  second-floor  back  room.  A  light  blazed 
above  him ;  through  the  open  window  came  only  a 
shrilling  of  crickets  and  the  liquid  pipe  of  frogs. 
The  human  tide,  at  flood  an  hour  before,  was  now 
at  ebb.  Hunkeytown  was  manless;  there  were 
only  sleeping  children  and  soft-stepping  women. 
The  man  was  in  his  undershirt  and  dripping  sweat. 
A  little  English  text-book,  open  before  him,  was 
gripped  in  his  huge  hairy  hands,  and  with  intense 
determination  he  kept  repeating  in  a  rare  bass 
voice : 

"  Day  cot  is  on  day  mot." 

From  a  little  gray  and  red  picture  he  under 
stood  that  it  was  a  door-mat,  and  that  a  cat  was 
on  it. 

This  man  was  hairy  and  huge  —  matching  his 
hands.  The  bushy  top  of  his  head  was  black,  his 
big  eyes  brown;  he  had  a  good  high  forehead,  he 
had  a  heavy  chin  and  a  wide  face. 

He  was  not  alone  in  that  queer  tumble-down 
room,  with  its  straw  mattress  on  the  floor,  its  dusty 
stove,  its  two  barrels  of  household  furnishings  — 
the  dirt  and  litter  of  it  all.  Opposite  him  in  a 
broken  arm-chair  a  dirty  little  boy  of  six  lay 
curled  up  fast  asleep.  Black  ringlets  fell  over  the 
boy's  sideway  face;  his  lips  were  open;  his  face 


i54  PAY  ENVELOPES 

sunburnt.  Two  chubby  fists  lay  in  his  lap.  His 
little  torn  trousers  were  pinned  up  to  an  old 
woolen  shirt. 

The  man  wiped  off  a  drift  of  sweat  and  spat 
tered  it  off  his  hand.  Then  he  dropped  the  book 
and  looked  up.  He  gazed  at  the  sleeping  boy. 
The  boy's  sleep  bred  an  atmosphere  of  warmth, 
home,  sweet  mystery.  The  man  felt  it,  and 
though  he  set  his  mouth  hard  and  tight,  the  rough 
tears  wet  his  eyes. 

"  Domm  America !  "  he  muttered. 

Then  he  shook  his  head,  and  clenched  a  big  fist. 

"  So  goes  it  —  so  goes  it !  " 

Gazing  then  at  the  boy,  his  eyes  took  on  a  far 
away  stare.  He  was  seeing  through  the  boy  and 
beyond  him  —  far  beyond  —  far  over  the  great 
waters  —  far  over  the  vanished  months  —  far  to 
the  Fatherland.  As  he  stared,  his  lips  moved,  his 
hand  fell  to  his  side.  He  saw  the  broad  meadows 
where  he  had  plowed  as  a  boy  —  he  saw  a 
young  girl  who  sometimes  went  singing  through 
those  meadows  —  he  was  leaning  on  his  hoe,  then 
—  leaned  for  hours  —  he  couldn't  work  for  love. 
Then  came  that  moonlit  walk  by  the  side  of  the 
pond;  the  waters  were  sliced  by  silver  and  they 
sang;  arms  went  soft  round  his  neck,  a  cheek  was 
fresh,  cool,  dream-stirring,  and  lips  — 

The  man  sat  up  with  a  jerk,  clenching  his  fist 
again.  He  looked  at  the  boy. 

"  Domm  America !  "  he  muttered. 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  155 

His  hand  fell  again.  It  was  five  years  after  the 
wedding.  A  little  steamship  agent,  dapper,  with 
twirling  mustaches,  in  a  check  suit,  showed  him 
circulars.  The  dream  of  all  the  world,  of  all  peo 
ples  —  the  dream  of  America  —  at  that  moment 
fell  upon  him.  The  West  called;  the  land  of 
freedom  called;  the  land  of  the  future,  the  land 
of  his  children !  And  there  —  so  ran  the  circu 
lars  —  gold  was  lying  in  the  gutter ;  there  were 
more  jobs  than  men,  wages  were  a  princely  in 
come. 

In  the  silent  evenings,  at  the  lamp-lit  table 
—  the  baby  asleep  —  he  and  the  young  wife 
talked  and  talked,  read  and  reread  the  circulars, 
dreamed  and  schemed.  Then,  at  last,  in  the 
thousand-reeking  steerage  they  floated  out  on  the 
great  waters.  Day  followed  day.  Herded  with 
five  nations  they  felt  a  rising  joy  —  a  bubbling 
expectation  —  a  dominant  dream.  And  then,  at 
last,  at  last,  at  dawn  —  gray  —  gray  waters,  gray 
skies  —  how  the  blood  left  a  thousand  cheeks  as 
women  and  children  in  shawls  and  men  in  tawdry 
coats,  crowded  aft,  and  there  —  there  it  was  — 
America !  A  sacred  moment  —  they  seemed  to 
stand  in  a  temple  of  sky  and  sea  —  till,  last,  they 
saw  the  tiny  Statue  of  Liberty,  and  back  of  that, 
a  greater  Statue  of  Liberty  —  a  statue  builded  by 
millions  of  hands  —  the  vision  of  a  shining  city 
floating  on  the  waters  in  the  gold  of  the  morning 
sun.  Yes,  yes  — 


156  PAY  ENVELOPES 

Again  with  a  jerk  the  man  sat  up,  and  glared 
at  the  boy. 

"  Domm  —  domm  America  !  " 

Then  his  stare  went  through  and  beyond  the 
boy  again.  They  were  at  Ellis  Island  —  but  they 
never  saw  the  shining  city.  They  had  tags  pinned 
to  their  clothing;  a  man  in  uniform  led  them. 
First  there  was  a  boat,  then  a  train,  then  the  smokes 
and  flame  of  Pittsburgh.  Then  another  train. 
Then  the  mill  —  the  mill!  What  a  place! 
Mighty  acres  of  low  buildings,  with  a  rumble  and 
roar  all  day  long,  and  a  miserable  Hunkeytown 
defacing  the  landscape.  And  he  found  out  he  was 
a  Hunkey  —  and  that  his  strength,  grown  out  of 
the  soil  and  under  the  sun,  was  worth  just  ten  dol 
lars  a  week.  And  he  found  that  hands  that  could 
run  a  clean  furrow  down  a  field  were  only  fit  to 
shovel  coal  into  a  lofty  furnace  —  whose  blinding 
glare  and  shriveling  heat  consumed  him.  All  day 
long  —  naked  to  the  waist  —  like  a  son  of  Anak 
his  writhing  muscles  played  golden  at  the  fires, 
the  sweat  slapped  down,  the  flesh  smelt  burnt. 
Twelve  hours  a  day;  six  days;  then  a  Sunday  of 
twenty- four  hours1  toil;  then  a  week  on  the  night- 
shift,  twelve  hours  from  sunset  to  sunrise.  A  ter 
rible  toiler  was  this  man,  and  grim,  and  uncom 
plaining.  The  work  threw  him  back  to  his  home 
every  twenty-four  hours  a  shattered  lump  of  clay 
that  went  to  bed,  or  stayed  up  for  liquor.  This 
was  no  home  —  this  was  no  life  —  but  they  were 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  157 

caught,  they  had  to  go  on.  And  all  was  going 
well  enough,  in  a  way,  when  typhoid  struck  the 
young  wife  and  swept  her  out.  It  might  have 
been  the  little  company  house,  unsanitary,  damp, 
near  an  open  cesspool.  But  she  was  stricken 
down,  and  the  overshadowing  twilight  went  out 
in  blackness. 

He  groaned  at  the  table  —  a  groan  as  if  his 
heart  were  being  torn,  torn  downward. 

Then  his  thoughts  hurried  on  in  a  tumult.  Boy 
and  father  divided  the  housework  between  them. 
The  father  dressed  and  undressed  the  child,  and 
roughly  mothered  him.  That  was  a  black  enough 
time.  And  then  came  the  cut  in  wages.  No  one 
explained  it.  One  Saturday  night  the  six  thou 
sand  millmen  found  the  money  in  their  pay-envel 
opes  reduced  by  half  or  even  two-thirds.  The  boy 
and  his  father  had  to  move  into  this  little  .room. 
The  mills  were  filled  with  mutterings  —  one  or 
two  men  complained  and  were  discharged  —  com 
pany  spies  tracked  every  attempt  at  mass-meetings. 
Was  the  toil  not  terrible  enough  without  this  star 
vation  cut  in  wages  ? 

He  smote  the  table  softly. 

"  Domm  —  domm !  "  he  cried. 

So  —  this  was  the  land  of  the  future,  the  land 
of  his  children  —  this  was  the  dream  of  all  the  peo 
ples  —  the  dream  of  America  —  riches,  freedom, 
home  —  this  —  this  "  slaughter-house  " —  so  his 
companions  called  it !  —  this,  this  hell  where  he 


158  PAY  ENVELOPES 

sweated,  burnt,  far  from  the  sweet  earth  and  the 
genial  sun  and  the  voice  of  a  woman.  He  had 
come  to  this! 

And  what  was  the  end?  Oh,  beautiful!  Yes 
terday  a  big  American  walked  to  the  whistle-rope 
at  ten  in  the  morning  —  and  pulled  and  pulled  it 
with  a  glad  defiance.  The  mill  stopped  down  as 
if  it  had  heart-failure,  and  in  the  hush  was  the 
tramp  of  a  host.  Fires  were  banked,  coal-shovels 
dropped,  riveting  hammers  flung  aside,  and  out 
marched  six  thousand  men  —  somewhat  puzzled, 
somewhat  timid  and  uncertain,  but  risen  to  a  man. 
The  crater  had  blown  off  the  volcano.  Hunkey- 
town  had  struck. 

He,  too,  had  to  strike.  They  told  him  so.  He 
had  argued  that  he  couldn't  afford  to  lose  his 
job.  They  told  him  to  clear  out  or  get  his  head 
broken  with  a  crowbar. 

He  went  out  raging.  Then  little  Boris  came 
home  from  school,  bursting  with  joy.  The 
school-children  had  struck,  too.  But  what  was  a 
strike?  Well,  he  would  study  English  and  find 
lout! 

America  had  taken  his  freedom,  his  home,  his 
iWife,  his  job  —  all,  all,  all ! 

Again  he  jerked  up,  and  clenching  his  fist,  he 
spoke  through  set  teeth: 

"  Domm  this  hell,  America!  " 

He  swabbed  off  the  drip  of  sweat  again,  and 
gazed  at  his  boy.  Yes,  his  own  boy.  How  tired 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  159 

he  must  have  been,  to  fall  asleep  this  way !  He 
ought  to  be  in  bed ! 

The  man  rose,  swung  easily  over,  shoved  a  hairy 
hand  under  his  legs  and  another  under  the  little 
neck,  and  lifted  the  child.  Suddenly  he  drew  his 
boy  crushingly  close. 

"  Och !  och !  "  he  grunted,  leaned,  and  kissed 
the  dirty  face  three  times. 

Then  he  stretched  the  boy  on  the  mattress, 
knelt,  and  pulled  off  the  trousers.  The  boy 
opened  his  eyes. 

"  Fader,"  came  a  clear  sweet  treble,  "  you  come 
too.  Come  to  bed." 

The  father  grinned,  his  eyes  shone;  he  bent, 
kissed  the  boy  again  —  then  rose,  turned  out  the 
light,  and,  lying  down,  took  the  little  fellow  in  his 
arms. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  sharp  rat-tat-tap 
on  the  door.  Grumbling,  cursing  under  his 
breath,  the  man  rose,  struck  a  match,  relit  the  gas 
and  opened  the  door.  The  golden  light  fell  on 
the  eager  face  of  Joan  Marcy. 

"  I  thought  there  was  a  light  here  —  saw  it 
from  the  street!  You  must  come  to  the  meet- 
ing!" 

The  words  flew  rapid,  sharp,  charged  with  vi 
tality. 

The  big  man  looked  down  on  Joan,  and  his 
forehead  darkened. 

"  Ah  guess  not,"  he  grumbled. 


160  PAY  ENVELOPES 

She  advanced  in  the  room,  he  stepping  back 
ward.  She  came  close. 

"Are  you  a  scab?" 

And  on  his  shrugging  his  shoulders : 

"  Jiminy  Christmas,  why  don't  you  learn  Eng 
lish?" 

He  grinned  then,  and  pointed  at  the  text-book. 

"  I  learn;  it  works  hard." 

Then  she  really  looked  at  him  —  the  huge  and 
hairy  man,  the  good  forehead,  the  strong  jaw,  the 
mighty  arms.  Her  eyes  blazed  admiration. 

"We  need  you  — "  she  cried.  "We've  all 
struck;  you're  one  of  us,  or  you're  against  us. 
Come  on  along  with  me !  " 

He  returned  her  unflinching  gaze. 

"  No,"  he  said. 

She  made   as   if  to  speak,   and  then  stopped. 

"  What  for  strike?  "  he  went  on.  "  I  got  no 
money  —  Boris,"  he  nodded  his  head  toward  the 
sleeping  boy  — "  go  not  to  school.  He  get  domm 
stupid.  First  pay  get  cut,  then  no  pay.  What 
for?" 

"What  for?"  She  paused,  still  looking  at 
him.  Then  suddenly  her  face  slid  into  a  radiant, 
glorious  smile,  so  womanly-sweet  that  he,  too, 
smiled  and  his  eyes  became  dimmed.  "  What's 
your  name?  "  she  asked. 

"  Ignatz  Plavier." 

"  Ignatz  Plavier,"  she  repeated.  "  Hunga 
rian?" 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  161 

"  Yes." 

"  Mine's  Joan  Marcy  —  they  call  me  Joan  of 
the  Mills,  because  once  somebody  called  Joan 
made  men  fight.  Don't  you  see  ? "  Her  eyes 
shone  again,  her  face  was  eager.  "  It's  a  strike; 
all  the  men  are  getting  together;  they'll  stand  by 
each  other  —  they'll  fight  —  fight  —  fight  until 
they  win.  Then  you'll  get  more  money  than  ever, 
and  won't  work  so  hard,  and  it  will  be  better  — 
better  for  you,  and  all  of  us,  and  the  boy  — " 
Her  voice  ended  in  a  break,  and  the  tears  sprang 
glistening  to  her  long-lashed  eyelids. 

"So?"  he  muttered  darkly.  He  understood 
nothing  but  the  tears.  But  how  good  they  were; 
how  human.  Suddenly  a  warmth  stole  into  his 
heart,  and  in  those  darkened  recesses,  black  with 
"  dommed  America,"  the  heat  beat  into  flame  a 
passion.  He  leaned  toward  her. 

"  You  a  good  girl,"  he  said  thickly. 

The  passion  escaping  through  his  voice  made 
her  look  at  him  sharply.  Then,  at  once,  she  felt  a 
comradeship  for  this  man,  a  home-feeling,  a  glad, 
hearty  warmth.  She  drew  closer,  and  spoke 
richly. 

"  Come  with  me,  Mr.  Plavier.  It's  good  to 
strike." 

She  touched  his  arm,  and  at  the  touch  an  old 
miracle  was  re-done.  For  suddenly,  after  months 
of  loneliness,  heart-break,  death,  sweat,  this  man 
found  that  he  was  again  in  the  scheme  of 


1 62  PAY  ENVELOPES 

things ;  someone  thought  of  him ;  someone  included 
him. 

His  throat  was  thick  with  tears. 

"  Yes  —  I  go  —  I  go  —  but  Boris  ?  I  stay  al 
ways  by  him.  He  wakes  up  and  cries  *  fader.'  ' 

"Where's  his  mother  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  strange  eyes ;  his  lips  sud 
denly  twitched. 

"  Dead,"  he  muttered. 

She  swung  round  and  leaned  over  the  sleeping 
boy  —  the  little  dirty  fellow,  curled  up,  black  ring 
lets  a-toss.  She  looked  and  looked,  and  her  heart 
struggled.  Among  the  women  she  had  been 
leader.  She  was  born  to  be  in  the  thick  of  things. 
Even  at  this  moment  she  yearned  to  fly  to  the 
meeting  and  mingle  her  voice  with  many  voices. 
But  this  man's  need  was  great.  He,  too,  was 
needed.  He  surely  must  go.  This  was  the  man- 
stuff  that  was  wanted.  And  yet,  how  could  she 
miss  that  meeting? 

She  looked  round.  He  was  beside  her;  his 
eyes  dreaming  from  her  to  his  boy.  Something 
thrilled  her  with  pain.  She  spoke  softly. 

"  I'll  stay  with  him.     You  go." 

"  You  stay?  "  he  cried  low. 

"  Yes  —  now  hurry!  " —  she  turned,  alert,  com 
manding,  "  at  the  schoolhouse  —  down  the  end  of 
the  street.  Quick,  now  —  I'll  wait !  " 

He  gazed  at  her  amazed. 

"So  bad  I  should  go?" 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  163 

"  So  bad!  "  she  laughed  softly.     "  Go!  go !  " 

He  said  nothing  further,  but  a  light  came  into 
his  eyes.  He  put  on  a  coat  and  a  hat  and  stepped 
to  the  door.  Then  he  turned.  "  Sure?  " 

"  Sure !  "  she  cried. 

And  he  went. 

He  was  gone  two  hours  —  a  long  two  hours. 
The  impatient  girl  leaned  out  the  window,  listened, 
paced  up  and  down.  Then  she  took  stock  of  the 
room.  It  betrayed  so  pitifully  the  man-touch 
that  she  smiled  tearfully,  and  set  to  work  getting 
things  to  rights.  Surely  this  man  in  his  helpless 
ness,  his  loneliness,  his  darkness,  needed  —  needed 
utterly.  The  girl  felt  her  strength  —  she'd  give 
him  a  "  lift."  But  as  she  stacked  plates  in  piles, 
wiped  dust  with  her  skirt  from  the  stove,  picked 
up  rubbish  from  the  floor,  she  paused,  dreaming, 
now  and  then,  and  listened.  Then,  in  her  dreami 
ness  she  dropped  a  knife.  In  the  creaking  silence 
it  smote  loud.  The  boy  stirred. 

"Fader!"  he  piped.     "Fader I" 

A  strange  passion  shook  her.  No  one  was 
looking  —  she  was  alone.  She  hurried  to  the 
mattress,  sat  down,  whispered: 

"  Boris,  dear,  all  right  —  all  right!  " 

And  softly  patted  him.  He  snuggled  up,  closed 
his  eyes  and  slept  again.  And  then  Joan  dis 
covered  that  a  mother  was  hidden  in  her  — it  went 
through  her  like  a  wave  of  love,  pity,  tenderness, 
all  jumbled  together.  She  went  on  patting  him, 


1 64  PAY  ENVELOPES 

she  sang  in  a  low  voice,  her  eyes  were  misty. 
Peace  came  to  her.  The  meeting  seemed  far;  the 
strike  seemed  far;  but  this  little  living  boy  seemed 
very  near.  It  is  given  to  woman  to  feel  how 
greater  it  is  to  touch  a  child  with  one's  hand  than 
to  lift  a  voice  among  voices. 

And  so  she  sat  there,  singing,  patting,  her  heart 
full.  Then  there  was  a  step  in  the  hall,  and  she 
rose  guiltily.  The  door  opened;  Ignatz  stepped 
in.  As  she  stood  facing  him,  she  saw  again  what 
a  mightiness  of  man  he  was  —  and  he  was  the 
father  —  truly  he  was  the  father ! 

She  smiled. 

"Well?" 

His  eyes  shone,  but  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  They  talk  —  I  no  understand!  " 

She  smiled  radiantly. 

"  Listen,"  she  said,  "  to-morrow  there's  a  meet 
ing  at  Indian  Mound.  Come  with  me,  bring 
Boris!" 

"  More  meeting?  "  his  eyebrows  went  up. 

"  Yes  —  you'll  understand,  too.  I'll  be  down 
stairs  in  the  morning.  You  and  Boris  go  with 


me." 


"  With  you?  "  he  paused  —  then  his  voice  rang 
with  genuine  passion :  "  Sure !  sure!  " 

She  stepped  to  the  door,  then  turned,  touched 
his  arm.  Her  voice  had  a  new  music  in  it. 

"  You've  got  the  loveliest  boy,  Mr.  Plavier!  " 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  165 

And  she  slipped  away  into  the  night.  The  big 
man  sat  down,  head  on  his  hand,  and  dreamed  a 
while.  For  Joan  was  a  woman  to  make  men 
dream. 

Acres  of  mills,  sheathed  in  corrugated  iron  — 
acres,  that  night  and  day,  holiday  and  Sunday, 
through  the  year  unceasingly  created  immense  steel 
cars  in  the  service  of  transportation  —  a  giant  la 
boring  to  help  make  the  railroads  a  weaver  of  peo 
ples,  a  blender  and  mixer  of  nations,  that  the 
world  grow  small  and  be  one  —  acres  wherein  the 
daring  dreams  of  civilization  came  true  —  and  yet 
the  giant  knew  not.  He  labored  sore,  in  twilight 
or  bronzed  by  fires,  he  struggled  with  steel  plates, 
he  cunningly  devised  springs,  he  cast  wheels,  he 
lifted  weights  —  but  his  dream  was  only  of  a  pay- 
envelope,  a  saloon,  a  woman,  and  sleep.  Down  in 
the  darkness  he  builded  the  future  of  earth  —  but 
heard  not,  neither  did  he  see. 

This  giant  was  labor.  Six  thousand  men  were 
his  thews  and  bones,  his  heart  and  soul.  But  the 
hand  did  not  know  the  heart,  nor  the  finger  speak 
with  the  finger  —  for  one  finger  came  from  Po 
land,  and  another  from  Italy,  a  third  from  Russia. 
The  giant  was  a  chaos  of  sixteen  nations  —  six 
teen  nations  drawn  over  the  Atlantic  by  the  mod 
ern  world-dream,  only  to  find  themselves  part  of 
a  brute  giant,  the  world-dream  gone,  the  dream 


1 66  PAY  ENVELOPES 

of  wages,  liquor,  sex  and  sleep  replacing  it.  They 
found  themselves  in  so  fierce  a  struggle  that  it  be 
came  good  merely  to  live,  eat,  breed,  sleep. 

But  being  human  and  therefore  unable  to  ut 
terly  shake  off  the  vision,  the  brute  giant  through 
all  the  chaos  of  him  began  to  stir.  He  raged  in 
wardly  in  polyglot  and  Hunkey-English.  He 
seemed  to  dimly  feel  that  man  was  not  made 
merely  to  labor  and  feed  and  breed  and  sleep. 
He  began  to  feel  that  a  house  should  also  be  a 
home,  a  mill  also  be  touched  with  dreams,  an 
evening  be  haunted  by  a  distant  glory,  a  foreman 
be  brotherly  —  but  he  felt  it  in  concrete  terms ;  he 
wanted  more  pay,  he  wanted  a  shorter  workday, 
he  wanted  the  power  of  foremen  curbed,  he 
wanted  the  right  to  organize  —  yea,  make  the  six 
thousand  as  one  in  their  own  defense  —  a  giant 
who  heard,  saw,  dreamed,  and  acted  with  intellect 
The  pressure  grew  stronger;  the  power  behind  the 
mill  —  the  unseen  mystery  —  turned  screw  after 
screw  —  there  was  a  spy-system,  there  was  a  pro 
hibition  of  meetings,  there  was  a  cut  in  wages. 
Then  the  brute  giant  grew  restive;  a  wild  passion 
seized  him ;  he  seemed  to  be  awakening,  the  finger 
aware  of  the  hand,  the  heart  of  the  head  —  and 
suddenly  he  stepped  out  of  the  mill,  like  a  soul 
leaving  the  body.  Steel-cars  ceased  to  be  made; 
the  daring  dreams  of  civilization  stopped  dead. 

But  the  giant  —  what  of  him?  The  head  was 
a  handful  of  Americans  —  skilled  workers,  native- 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  167 

born.  Instinctively  they  felt  their  responsibility. 
They  formed  a  committee  —  The  Big  Six  —  with 
a  trained  Russian  revolutionist,  an  Italian  versed  in 
the  general  strike,  a  French  socialist,  and  Amer 
ican  labor-unionists.  But  how  was  the  head  to  or 
ganize  that  chaos  of  a  body  —  how  sow  enlighten 
ment  among  the  six  thousand  —  how  blend  the 
sixteen  nations  into  one? 

Something  had  to  be  done.  So  they  plastered 
the  billboards  on  the  road  to  Hunkeytown  with 
posters  in  five  languages,  calling  a  meeting  on  In 
dian  Mound.  Indian  Mound  was  a  hump  of  earth 
at  the  south  of  the  mills,  vast,  treeless,  open. 

At  dawn  that  morning  Joan  arose.  The  family 
• —  her  two  brothers  who  worked  in  the  mills, 
her  young  sister  and  her  mother  —  were  still 
asleep.  She  slipped  softly  from  the  little  cottage 
that  stood  in  a  hilly  field  a  bit  beyond  Hunkey 
town.  Hoe  in  hand,  and  barefoot,  she  stepped 
into  the  garden-patch  beside  the  house.  There 
were  rows  of  potatoes,  onions,  carrots,  beets,  and 
a  little  clump  of  corn.  It  was  a  little  after  dawn 
and  a  brilliant  light  fell  slanting  like  a  fall  of  snow 
upon  the  earth.  Leaves  glistened  tremblingly. 
The  air  was  full  of  a  breathless  glory  —  tasted 
fresh  and  smelt  of  the  wet  earth.  A  mist  knee- 
deep  clung  to  the  fields  like  a  heaving  sea  and 
daisy-heads  floated  on  the  surface. 

Joan  tingled  with  the  glory  of  morning;  she 
breathed  deep ;  her  eyes  were  liquid  with  sleep  and 


1 6.8  PAY  ENVELOPES 

joy.  Then  she  set  to  work  heartily,  hoeing  around 
the  potatoes.  The  wet  earth  was  under  her  bare 
feet,  the  dew-dripping  potato  leaves  slapped 
against  her  skin.  All  the  health  of  earth  seemed 
to  go  through  her,  rising  out  of  the  ground  through 
her  body.  At  the  very  top  of  the  lonely  pear-tree 
near  by  perched  a  bobolink.  Suddenly  he  sang, 
and  the  wild  ascending  lisp  seemed  to  lift  him,  for 
he  soared  with  it  into  the  pale  blue  skies.  Joan 
looked  up,  her  eyes  wide,  her  heart  throbbing  with 
music.  And  then  she  knew  she  was  in  love  with 
a  great  big  foreign  man  —  a  Hunkey. 

She  stopped  working;  she  leaned  on  her  hoe. 
She  felt  caught  in  a  trap  of  glory.  For  —  had 
she  not  been  free?  had  she  not  been  a  girl  different 
—  girl  unique  ?  Was  she  not  Joan  of  the  Mills  — 
head  of  the  Ladies'  Auxiliary  —  free,  strong,  al 
most  masculine?  And  now,  without  warning, 
and  just  as  the  strike  needed  her  most,  that  power 
and  passion  of  the  human  race  that  brings  forth 
the  generations  and  enslaves  women  and  bids  men 
sweat  for  others  —  that  power  of  earth  and  sun 
seized  upon  her,  dipped  her  in  a  blinding  fire,  and 
possessed  her  body  and  her  soul  for  its  own  uses. 
The  strike  faded  far,  the  voices  withdrew  —  and 
she  merely  remembered  with  the  sharp  vividness 
of  touch,  little  Boris  curled  up  asleep,  the  still  hot 
room,  the  torn  mattress,  and  her  hand  patting  a 
child  while  her  lips  and  heart  sang  together.  And 
she  saw  that  big  dark  man,  and  wanted  him  — 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  169 

wanted  him  with  all  her  strength.  The  power 
bid  her  mate  with  this  man  —  following  him 
through  all  the  world. 

In  a  sudden  tigress  fury  she  flung  down  the  hoe. 

"  No !  "  she  muttered.  "  I  won't !  I'm  Joan  1 
Joan  of  the  Mills!" 

She  swung  into  the  house,  banging  doors,  cry 
ing: 

"Harry!    Eddy!    Momsey!  Get  up!  get  up!  " 

She  roused  the  family;  she  quarreled  with  them 
all  through  breakfast  She  told  them  fiercely  to 
think  of  the  strike,  to  be  ready  to  march  —  "a 
lot  of  fools  and  pigeon-livers,  afraid  of  fighting! 
You  think  so  much  of  yourselves,  you  ain't  ever 
going  to  be  free !  —  Eddy,  get  your  flute !  " 

In  a  wild  excitement  she  seized  a  long  willow- 
wand,  to  which  a  red  flannel  rag  was  sewed,  flag- 
like,  and  with  her  brother  swung  out  to  the  head 
of  the  street. 

"  Now,  play,"  she  cried,  "  play  till  you  burst!  " 

They  stood  a  moment  before  those  wide  rows  of 
sleeping  houses.  The  sun  flashed  down  on  the 
dust  of  the  road.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight.  Eddy 
was  pale  and  trembling.  He  lifted  the  flute  to 
his  lips  and  began  playing  "  Yankee  Doodle." 
He  stepped  forward,  Joan  at  his  side,  the  flag 
flapping  over  her  shoulder.  Her  face  was  eager, 
her  eyes  sparkling,  her  lips  parted.  Together  they 
swung  down  the  street. 

The    shrill,    brook-like    music    rose    quivering 


170  PAY  ENVELOPES 

through  the  air;  the  two  marched  together;  and 
then  suddenly,  from  every  door,  men  and  women 
and  children  —  hearts  thrilling,  faces  flushed 
or  very  pale  —  came  streaming  out  into  the  sun 
light.  They  hesitated  a  moment;  the  girl  and  boy 
passed  them  with  their  set  young  faces  and  the 
whistling  music  and  the  stirring  flag.  Then  in 
silence  they  fell  in  behind,  'an  army  of  families. 
The  street  filled  from  end  to  end. 

Ignatz,  with  white  face,  was  standing  in  his 
doorway,  holding  Boris  by  the  hand.  Joan  saw 
them. 

She  stepped  aside  angrily: 

"Quick!  come!" 

Ignatz  followed  her  with  his  boy.  She  could 
feel  that  they  were  near;  she  set  her  lips,  held  her 
flag  higher. 

The  vast  moving  crowd  swept  on.  No  one 
spoke.  The  flute  and  flag  led  them.  All  moved 
deliberately.  Eyes  shone  with  a  mighty  expecta 
tion.  Men  and  women  and  children  held  one  an 
other's  hands.  It  was  the  brute  giant  in  motion 
—  a  tapestry  in  many  colors  —  strange  foreign 
faces  —  the  stolid  Slavs,  the  fiery  Italians,  the 
eagle-like  Russians,  the  solid  Germans.  It  was  like 
Ellis  Island  marching  by. 

Slowly  on  and  on  the  flood  poured  —  the  living 
waters  of  Europe  swept  the  dusty  road  —  and  with 
the  tread  of  a  host  the  giant  marched  out  through 
the  bare  country,  past  the  mills,  and  up  the  Mound. 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  171 

On  that  vast  slope  they  stopped,  those  in  the  rear 
spreading  out  in  a  thick  and  nearing  semi-circle, 
until  from  the  top  one  could  look  down  on  a  com 
pact  mass,  a  block  of  eight  thousand  human  souls 
—  men  in  shirts  and  suspenders,  women  in  soft 
waists,  children  in  rags.  Those  in  front  sat  on 
the  ground.  The  sea  had  come  to  a  pause;  it  was 
still,  absolutely  still;  eyes  lifted;  souls  waiting. 
Far  in  back  of  the  crowd,  far  below,  lay  the  mighty 
acres  of  silent  mills.  Up  in  front  stood  the  soul 
of  the  mill,  the  hands  of  the  mill,  the  visible  giant, 
silent,  but  throbbing  with  life. 

A  dozen  men  stood  on  a  little  platform  before 
them.  The  open  sky  above,  reaching  down  far 
behind  the  mills,  and  round  about  for  miles,  poured 
down  its  heat.  The  dozen  men  looked  at  the  eight 
thousand  questioning  eyes.  They  read  the  ques 
tion  in  the  eyes  of  the  giant:  "  You  brought  us 
here  —  now,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  What 
does  it  all  mean?  We  are  ready;  speak!  " 

Close  below  the  stand  stood  Joan,  restless,  de 
fiant,  drums  rolling  in  her  heart.  Was  not  this 
the  hour  toward  which  all  her  life  had  moved  — 
the  hour  of  war,  of  battle,  of  leadership?  She 
waited  the  signal;  she  waited  the  word  of  fight. 
That  was  to  give  her  strength.  That  was  to  hurl 
her  against  the  foes  of  the  working  people. 

And  right  back  of  her  stood  Ignatz  —  big,  black, 
powerful  —  with  his  quick  eyes  and  large  good 
forehead.  But  his  eyes  were  not  on  the  platform 


172  PAY  ENVELOPES 

—  they  were  on  that  restless  girl  before  him.     He 
felt  somehow  that  she  was  the  America  that  he 
had  come  to  —  she  was  freedom  and  the  future. 
Within  him  all  was  like  a  furnace.     He  had  been 
lonely,  misused,   trampled  —  his  wife  and  home, 
his  dreams  and  the  good  of  life  all  snatched  away 

—  his    aching    empty   life   needed  —  needed   this 
girl.     She  seemed  to  fit  in  with  his  home;  she 
seemed  to  belong.     The  thought  roused  in  him  a 
passion  of  hate.     Why  love  a  woman  in  this  land? 
In  a  year  or  two  she,  too,  would  be  snatched  away, 
or  if  not,  he  would  see  her  defaced  by  poverty  and 
toil. 

His  thoughts  stopped,  for  someone  was  speak 
ing  —  one  of  The  Big  Six  —  a  mighty-mouthed 
fellow.  He  spoke  in  a  good  workman's  English 

—  terse,   sharp,  tense.     Ignatz  could  not  under 
stand;     neither     could     eight     thousand     others. 
Words    like    "  unite  —  organize  —  union  —  keep 
order "    were   sown    on    barren    ground.     Ignatz 
knew  there  was  nothing  in  all  this.     And  then, 
suddenly,  he  paused;  his  lips  parted;  he  looked 
up ;  he  listened  heart  and  soul. 

It  was  another  speaker,  also  English.  But  this 
time  there  was  a  telepathic  impact;  the  brain  com 
prehended  not,  but  the  heart  knew.  The  man  let 
loose  a  fire  of  passion,  which,  strangely,  was  a 
jumble  of  English;  but  his  words  had  the  effect  of 
tremendous  music.  The  passion,  the  rhythm,  the 
rise  and  fall  of  verbal  melody,  the  man's  gestures, 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  173 

his  shining  face,  went  out  like  a  prairie  fire,  licking 
up  the  dry  grass  of  human  nature.  It  was  like  a 
revelation  to  that  mighty  mass.  Here  was  pur 
pose;  here  was  help;  here  was  vision;  here  was  a 
call,  a  great  call. 

There  is  a  moment  when  a  crowd  becomes  a 
mob  —  either  a  dangerous  or  a  sublime  moment  — 
when  thousands  of  separate  individualities  are 
blended  in  a  mystic  union  —  when  the  thousands 
become  as  one  man,  with  one  mind,  one  heart,  one 
dream,  one  action.  Ignatz,  standing  in  the  crowd 
—  Joan  standing  before  him  —  felt  the  moment 
come.  They  could  not  resist.  It  was  like  an  elec 
tric  shock;  but  suddenly  Ignatz  knew  in  his  heart 
that  he  was  no  longer  a  separate  soul,  no  longer 
lonely  and  apart;  but  that  the  great  soul  of  man 
had  absorbed  him ;  he  entered  into  the  larger  man 
hood;  he  felt  himself  a  part  of  a  throng  of  human 
ity;  a  sense  of  brotherhood,  divine  and  lovely,  stole 
into  him;  he  could  have  shaken  hands  with  every 
man  in  the  crowd;  cried  with  them,  laughed  with 
them,  died  with  them.  And  a  wonder  went  like 
light  through  Joan  —  the  miracle  was  worked  — 
and  she  knew  that  the  word  was  not  of  battle,  but 
of  love  —  that  the  fight  was  to  draw  others  near. 
A  glory  beckoned  her  —  and  that  way  lay  love. 
She  turned  impulsively.  Her  eyes  were  blinded 
with  tears. 

'c  Take  my  hand,"  she  whispered. 

He  took  it,  a  passion  inexpressible  sweeping  him. 


i74  PAY  ENVELOPES 

The  hairy  and  huge  hand  closed  over  hers  with  a 
might  she  had  never  gauged  before.  And  thus, 
hand  in  hand,  they  heard  the  speaker  finish,  while 
electricity  tingled  between  the  shoulders  and  the 
blood  left  the  cheek  — 

Perhaps  the  speaker  felt  that  the  crowd  was 
"with  him;  "  that  many  men  had  become  Man, 
and  that  he  was  merely  the  tongue  expressing  this 
thousand-beating  heart;  for  he  spoke  a  moment 
(few,  of  course,  understanding)  of  the  new  Amer 
ican.  He  said: 

"  You  —  you  are  the  new,  the  true  American 

—  for  as  I  look  before  me  I  see  native-born  Amer 
icans,  I  see  Germans,  I  see  Hungarians,  I  see  Ru- 
thenians,   Slavonians,   Croatians;  I  see  Polanders 
and  Turks  and  Lithuanians;  I  see  Russians,  Greeks, 
Italians,  Armenians;  I  see  Roumanians;  I  see  Bul 
garians;  I  see  Swiss  —  gathered  from  all  quarters 
of  the  civilized  world  —  gathered  here  together 

—  merged  into  one,  working  together,  dreaming 
together,    living    together  —  you  —  "    his    hands 
went  out  to  them  with  his  heart,  he  almost  sobbed, 
"  you  Americans  — "  and  he  laughed  like  a  man 
in  delirium,  "  and  they  call  you  ignorant  foreigners 
— -  they    call    you    Hunkeys !     Show    'em!    Show 
>emf" 

And  as  the  crowd  roared  eight-thousand 
mouthed,  truly  the  miracle  was  worked.  The 
world-dream,  the  vision,  touched  the  giant  with 
soul.  He  awoke ;  he  knew  his  purpose ;  he  saw  the 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  175 

vistas  ahead;  he  was  no  longer  a  chaos,  but  heart 
and  hand,  finger  and  finger,  spirit  and  mind,  they 
were  all  one  —  one  mighty  organism,  one  mighty 
brotherhood  of  toil.  The  glory,  the  sense  of 
power,  of  freedom,  the  lift  and  urge,  the  might 
of  numbers,  smote  all  like  lightning.  Joan  was 
sobbing,  her  heart  was  broken  open.  How  blind 
she  had  been  —  not  to  see  that  the  strike  was  for 
love  I 

It  was  not  till  noon  that  the  thousands  went 
home.  Still  in  a  dream,  her  flag  dragging,  Joan 
walked  with  Ignatz  and  Boris.  And  as  they 
walked,  a  strange  new  shame  came  upon  her.  She 
dropped  his  hand,  and  kept  looking  away.  Also 
there  was  a  new  pain  —  she  yearned  with  all  her 
heart  to  mother  this  big  man.  Did  he  not  need? 
Had  she  not  the  might,  the  mother-passion  to 
shelter  him  under  the  wings  of  home,  and  love  and 
light?  He  must  understand  what  the  strike 
meant!  He  must  come  out  of  his  dark  isolation 
and  share  this  new  glory  —  a  glory  that  made  her 
breathless.  And  yet,  mixed  with  that  yearning, 
there  was  a  strange  shyness  in  her  heart,  a  womanly 
timidity.  The  power  and  passion  of  the  genera 
tions  had  seized,  subdued  her,  softened  her  girl 
hood  into  a  tender  bloom  —  a  bloom,  of  what? 
Was  it  womanhood  opening  within  her,  spreading 
in  the  sun,  changing  her  earth  and  her  sky?  She 
breathed  hard,  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  a  new  loveli 
ness  stole  into  her  face  —  its  eagerness,  its  wild 


176  PAY  ENVELOPES 

beauty  were  filmed  with  a  softness  and  grace  un- 
apparent  before. 

Suddenly  she  stopped,  her  heart  hammering. 
They  were  before  his  door,  and  he  was  speaking : 

"  Come  up  —  eat  with  Boris  and  me !  " 

She  glanced  up  timidly,  quickly.  She  was 
amazed.  His  face  had  become  more  alive;  the 
eyes  burned  with  purpose;  there  was  a  new 
strength,  a  new  light. 

She  murmured  something  and  stepped  in  with 
them.  They  climbed  the  steps  and  entered  the 
little  room.  Joan  stood  in  the  doorway,  dream 
ing.  Then  she  noticed  that  the  big  man  was 
clumsily  lighting  a  kerosene  stove.  She  stepped 
forward.  She  spoke  softly. 

u  Let  me  —  it's  not  work  for  a  man." 

He  turned  on  her  the  face  of  a  man  surprised  by 
an  angel.  Her  words  were  so  amazing,  but  her 
voice  was  so  much  more  so. 

Then  they  sat  down,  Boris  between  them.  They 
started  to  eat.  But  Ignatz  could  not  contain  him 
self.  His  heart  was  overflowing. 

"  Listen  —  I  know  — "  he  spoke  brokenly,  awk 
wardly,  "  now  I  know  —  why  —  we  came  to 
America.  It's  —  so  all  people  —  all  people  work 
together.  The  paper  in  Hungary  said:  America 
gold.  It  is.  The  streets  full  of  gold.  Only  "  — 
he  spoke  with  rising  passion  —  "  you  can't  put  it 
in  your  pocket.  You  put  it  here !  "  And  he  struck 
his  breast  with  his  big  fist. 


JOAN  OF  THE  MILLS  177 

She  leaned  forward,  a  low  cry  of  utter  joy  leap 
ing  from  her  lips : 

"  You  know  —  that?" 

"  I  know!" 

"  Then,"  she  cried  low,  "  you're  an  American, 
too  —  we  botfi  are  —  we  can  work  together  in  this 
strike  — " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  and  blushed  red  —  a  new 
thing  for  Joan  of  the  Mills.  His  eyes  burned 
with  a  new  fire ;  he  was  the  man  of  the  two  of  them. 
He  arose  softly,  he  stepped  to  her  side,  and  she 
looked  down  on  the  table. 

"  Och !  "  he  whispered,  leaning  over  her. 
"  You  —  you  are  America  —  that  is  why  I 
come!" 

She  put  her  head  down  on  the  table  and  sobbed. 

"  Go  away  —  I'm  a  fool  —  nothing  but  a 
woman  —  I'll  never  be  Joan  of  the  Mills  any 


more." 


And  little  Boris  cried  too. 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE 

A  T  six  A.  M.  all  three  were  asleep ;  young  Paul 
Lynch  and  his  wife  in  the  small  bedroom; 
little  Tessie  in  the  large  combination  kitchen,  with 
its  dining  table,  stove,  parlor  furniture  and  col 
lapsible  cot.  Out  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Model 
Tenement  (the  two  rooms  formed  an  L  in  the 
courtyard  corner)  a  dreary  rain  splashed.  Milk 
man  and  baker  left  their  bottles  and  loaves  on  the 
dumbwaiter;  the  janitor  worked  up  the  steam; 
the  mechanics  and  factory  foreman  arose  and  had 
breakfast.  Faces  looked  down  into  the  courtyard 
inquiringly  —  then  up  at  the  small  square  of  blot 
ted  sky. 

At  that  moment  in  several  hundred  thousand 
homes  in  the  crowded  city  the  busy  scene  was  be 
ing  enacted  —  but  mostly  in  homes  darker,  dustier 
and  drearier  than  the  brand-new  Model  Tene 
ment  on  Seventy-ninth  Street  near  the  East  River. 
Everywhere  human  beings;  everywhere  awaken 
ing  for  a  brief  new  glimpse  of  life,  a  new  ex 
perience,  another  step  toward  death  —  perhaps 
death  itself. 

Of  the  three  at  Lynch's,  Tessie  awoke  first, 
scrambled  sleepily  out  of  bed,  dressed  and  washed 

181 


1 82  PAY  ENVELOPES 

herself,  tied  her  hair  with  a  faded  ribbon,  fixed 
her  bed  and  collapsed  it  with  all  her  strength  and 
pushed  it  in  a  corner.  Then,  somewhat  tired,  she 
put  a  pot  of  coffee  on  the  gas-stove  and  greased  a 
pan  ready  for  bacon  and  eggs.  Tessie  was  eight 
years  old  —  a  thin,  bloodless  school  girl,  unlovely 
and  angular.  Her  large,  gray  eyes  were  wistful 
and  her  hair  was  abundantly  curly  and  black. 
But  in  the  cheap  and  worn  cotton  dress  she  seemed 
all  elbows  and  knees. 

Tessie  next  proceeded  to  set  the  table,  spread 
ing  a  dirty  cloth  and  laying  the  plated  ware  and 
the  dishes.  Then  she  pulled  up  the  dumbwaiter 
and  drew  off  milk  and  bread  and  two  morning 
papers.  Having  done  this,  she  opened  her  reader, 
muttering  aloud  and  feeling  unaccountably  de 
pressed  and  lonely. 

Now  and  then  she  glanced  at  a  small  alarm- 
clock  on  the  little  bookcase.  At  seven  she  went 
timidly  to  the  door  of  her  sister's  room  and 
knocked. 

"  It's  seven,  Paul,"  she  called. 

"  Aw,  hell,"  came  a  rough  voice. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  she  knocked  again. 

"  It's  a  quarter  past,  Paul." 

"  Oh,  darn  it  —  I  can't  wake  up !  " 

Five  minutes  later: 

"  It's  twenty  past  seven,  Paul." 

"  Twenty  past  seven !  "  his  voice  was  incredu- 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE  183 

lous.  "  Why  do  you  let  a  feller  sleep?  Get 
those  eggs  ready." 

The  little  girl  bustled  about  with  sharp  speed, 
breaking  the  eggs  neatly  into  the  hot  pan  and 
dropping  in  the  bacon. 

When  her  brother-in-law  appeared,  his  break 
fast  was  standing  ready.  He  sat  down,  spread 
his  newspaper  and  read  and  ate.  He  was  a  neat- 
looking  young  man,  with  hairless  face,  quick,  blue 
eyes  and  light  hair.  He  seemed  dressed  unac 
countably  well,  pin  in  scarf,  bright  blue  socks, 
pumps  and  unspotted  sack  suit.  Tessie  —  after 
taking  her  sister  one  of  the  newspapers  —  gulped 
her  breakfast  opposite,  now  and  then  glancing  at 
Paul  timidly. 

The  door-bell  rang  sharply.     Paul  looked  up. 

"  At  this  hour?  Those  darn  collectors!  Say 
we're  out.  Tell  him  to  call  again." 

Tessie  rose,  went  to  the  door,  set  it  on  a  narrow 
crack. 

'  Yes,  sir,"  she  said,  in  a  childish,  frightened 
voice. 

"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Lynch." 

"  He's  out." 

"  Out?     Guess    again.     I've    been    here    since 


six." 


"  He's  out"     She  tried  to  close  the  door,  but 
the  man  set  his  foot  against  it. 

"  Just  a  minute,  kid,"  he  said,  and  pushed  his 


1 84  PAY  ENVELOPES 

way  in.  Tessie  gave  a  cry  of  fright;  Paul  rose 
hastily  from  his  coffee. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  he  cried. 

The  collector,  who  was  dripping  wet  and  looked 
cheap  and  miserable,  held  out  a  slip. 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Lynch,  that  instalment  on  the 
furniture's  three  weeks  overdue.  You  owe  $/'.5O. 
If  you  don't  pay  now  —  why,  we'll  send  up  a 
wagon  for  it  this  morning." 

Paul  laughed. 

"  What  do  you  take  me  for?  Rockefeller? 
Seven-fifty  on  Thursday  morning?  Not  on  your 
life!" 

The  instalment  man  spoke  sharply: 

"Is  that  final?" 

"  Aw,  say,  be  reasonable.  Take  two.  The 
rest  Monday." 

The  instalment  man  took  the  two  and  left. 

Then  Paul  strode  sharply  back  to  the  bedroom. 
Louise  lay  comfortably  propped  up  in  the  bed, 
reading  the  department  store  advertisements  in 
the  newspaper.'  She  was  quite  a  large  young 
woman,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  large  blue  eyes  and 
large  red  lips.  Her  hair  —  later  to  be  bunched 
high  in  a  pompadour,  filled  out  with  "  rats  "  — 
came  over  the  covers  in  a  neat  braid. 

Paul  spoke  sharply: 

"  Loo,  don't  you  send  any  more  stuff  home. 
We're  broke." 

She  looked  up  at  him. 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE  185 

"  Oh,"  she  said  languidly,  "  we'll  get  it  c  on 
time.'  " 

"  We  won't  get  it  at  all." 

"We  won't?"  she  flashed.  "Well,  we'll 
see!" 

He  burst  out  angrily: 

"  Send  another  thing  and  I'll  send  it  back  — 
flying." 

"  Who  you  talking  to?  "  she  snapped. 

"  Hum !  "  he  murmured,  "  I  wouldn't  like  to 
tell  you  to  your  face !  " 

"Then  —  clear  out,  you  little  piker!  Why, 
even  Mary  McClellan's  husband  gives  her  more 
than  you  give  me,  and  no  scrapping." 

Something  of  emotion  —  distress,  possibly  — 
came  into  his  voice. 

"  You're  a  fine  wife,  Louise." 

She  laughed  shrilly. 

"  And  you  ?  Look  at  the  man  I  tied  myself  to. 
I  wish  I  was  back  at  Macy's  selling  gloves.  But 
I  guess  I'll  make  the  best  of  this,  and  get  my  fling 
out  of  it!  " 

He  gritted  his  teeth  together. 

"  Some  day,  Loo,  I'll  clear  out.  Can't  you 
think  of  anything  but  spending  and  fun?  " 

"Can't  you?"  she  mocked. 

"I?" 

"  Oh,"  she  laughed,  "ten-cent  cigars;  bowling; 
club-dues ;  poker ;  theater  —  look  at  your  clothes. 
I  guess  you're  as  bad  as  I,  Paul  Lynch." 


1 86  PAY  ENVELOPES 

He  squirmed  under  the  attack. 

"  Well,  you  get  that  new  rocker  and  I'll  send  it 
back.  I'm  broke." 

"Oh,"  she  sighed,  "you're  always  broke. 
And  I  could  have  had  Jimmy  Allen  and  two  thou 
sand  a  year!  " 

He  looked  at  her  then  with  an  expression  of  real 
feeling  on  his  young  face  —  a  flash  of  despair. 

"Loo!" 

He  sat  down  on  a  chair. 

"Well?" 

"  I  thought  we  married  because  we  — "  he 
stopped  short. 

She  read  aloud  from  the  paper: 

i  Chanticler  '      hats  —  bargain      sale  —  only 
eight-twenty.     Gee !     I  must  get  down  there !  " 

He  reached  for  her  hand  and  she  pulled  it  away. 

"  Loo!  "  he  cried,  "  what  sort  of  a  home  is  this? 
Why,  we  ain't  even  got  a  kid  —  " 

She  put  down  her  paper  and  narrowed  her  eyes 
and  spoke  very  slowly: 

"  Don't  you  talk  of  that,  Paul  —  don't  you 
dare !  Have  you  a  thousand  extra  a  year  —  you, 
who  make  less  than  a  thousand?  Gee!  I  under 
stand  !  You  want  to  bind  me  down  —  make  a 
drudge  of  me.  No,  I  want  my  own  life;  I'll  only 
live  once."  She  lowered  her  voice.  "  I've 
enough  with  that  kid  outside  —  mopy,  pale,  horrid 
little  thing." 

Paul  looked  at  her;  he  wanted  to  speak  to  her 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE  187 

—  tell  her  of  the  vague  longing  in  his  heart.  But 
he  rose,  and  merely  said  coldly : 

"  Tess  is  a  good  kid  and  a  help;  good  as  a 
servant.  And  we  had  to  take  her  in  when  your 
mother  died." 

"Tut!  "  she  said,  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
read. 

He  hesitated. 

"Good-by,  Loo!" 

She  looked  up  surprised. 

"Oh,  good-by!" 

He  glanced  at  her  again,  turned  sharply  and 
went  out. 

Soon  he  had  trudged  through  the  rain  and 
swung  downtown  in  a  packed,  elevated  train,  hang 
ing  to  a  strap  and  reading  his  paper.  He  was  a 
cog  in  the  well-ordered  machine  of  Business.  All 
night  the  parts  had  been  scattered,  the  million- 
pieced  machine  dispersed  through  the  hundred 
thousand  acres  of  city,  and  the  mighty  block  of 
skyscrapers  at  the  city's  end  had  been  mere  dead 
shell.  Now,  as  by  magic,  the  parts  flew  together, 
the  machine  reassembled  itself  and  a  tremendous 
city  sucked  and  dispersed  the  traffic  of  a  continent. 
Paul  made  his  way  down  the  canyon  of  lower 
Broadway.  It  was  so  dark  and  gloomy  in  the 
rain  that  the  shops  were  lighted  and  the  vast  tide 
of  people  braiding  down  the  sidewalk  loomed 
strange  in  the  unusual  glow. 

Paul,  with  a  thousand  others,  entered  the  lighted 


1 88  PAY  ENVELOPES 

office-building  of  a  great  express  company,  climbed 
two  flights  of  stairs  and  took  his  place,  standing, 
at  a  high  desk  in  a  room  crowded  with  clerks.  It 
was  the  Tariff  Department.  A  few  of  the  clerks 
gossiped  together  —  a  group  of  bloodless,  unback- 
boned,  manless  men  —  talked  of  their  last  night's 
adventures  with  whiskey  and  women  and  gambling. 
Then,  at  the  stroke  of  eight-thirty  they  hurried  to 
their  desks.  Paul's  work  was  to  correct  old  rate- 
sheets  with  the  latest  figures  —  writing  in  the  new 
rate  in  red  ink  over  the  old.  This  was  his  job  — 
scarcely  work  to  use  a  man's  faculty  or  to  give  him 
growth  and  experience.  He  worked  patiently, 
steadily  and  at  last,  mechanically.  His  fingers 
began  to  work  for  him.  He  had  a  long  day  for 
such  thoughts  as  chose  to  go  like  phantoms  across 
his  mind. 

At  noon  he  took  lunch  at  a  quick-lunch  counter, 
a  walk  in  the  drizzle,  and  a  smoke. 

Then  he  went  back  to  work.  At  five-thirty  — 
after  interminable  watching  of  the  clock  —  the 
thousand  men  were  released  and  went  pell-mell  to 
the  street.  There  hurried  thousands  of  others; 
the  cars  were  crowded;  joy  and  relief  and  festivity 
were  in  the  air.  And  the  storm  was  over;  the 
skies  had  cleared. 

After  such  a  day  was  it  any  wonder  that  Paul, 
with  the  other  clerks,  felt  the  terrible  lust  for  life; 
that  he  wanted  to  plunge  into  excesses  and  excite 
ment;  that  he  craved  strong  drink?  Was  this 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE  189 

not,  in  a  way,  an  excuse  for  gambling,  the  theater 
and  the  rest?  And  what  sort  of  a  home  was  he 
going  to? 

Tessie,  after  Paul  had  gone,  looked  in  a  mo 
ment  at  her  sister. 

"Well,  Tessie?" 

"  I'm  going." 

"  Listen!  "  She  sat  up  in  bed.  "  I  won't  be 
home  till  late.  You'll  find  the  things  in  the  ice 
box.  Fix  the  supper." 

"Yes.     Good-by!" 

"  Good-by!  "     She  sank  back  again. 

Tessie  still  lingered. 

"Well?"— sharply. 

"Nothing!"  The  little  girl  left  with  her 
school  books. 

At  nine  Louise  arose  and  went  to  work  over  her 
massive  pompadour;  then  she  carefully  donned 
a  striking  blue  suit  —  a  suit  a  little  too  showy,  and 
yet  striking  in  its  clean  cut.  Next,  she  cooked  her 
own  breakfast,  ate  it,  washed  the  dishes,  and  sat 
down  and  read  with  absorbed  interest  of  the  latest 
murder  trial  and  all  accounts  of  seduction,  crime, 
marriage,  divorce  and  suicide  she  could  find. 

Tiring  of  this,  she  put  on  her  red-feathered, 
black,  overhanging  hat  and  went  downtown  to  the 
shopping  district.  In  a  busy  crowd  of  women 
she  tramped  the  corridors  of  a  brilliantly-lighted 
world  of  bargains,  pausing  here  and  there  to  covet 


1 90  PAY  ENVELOPES 

some  bit  of  jewelry,  some  scrap  of  finery.  She 
had  the  true  shopping  fever,  a  city  disease.  Like 
a  hunter  she  trailed  the  prey  of  a  bargain;  like  a 
child  she  coveted  until  she  possessed  and  then 
threw  the  toy  away,  and  craved  something  else. 
Flauntingly  she  walked  by  the  shop-girls,  though 
she  chewed  gum  even  as  they,  and  kept  in  her 
brain  and  body  indelible  traces  of  the  old  life  be 
hind  the  counter.  That  life  had  been  kaleido 
scopic,  varied,  exciting,  rich  with  the  drip  of 
crowded  humanity.  It  was  hardly  to  be  expected 
that  she  could  settle  down  in  a  quiet  tenement  and 
drudge.  All  her  youth,  all  her  plastic  period  had 
shaped  her  into  a  woman  of  the  flashing  centers. 
And  she  had  no  counter-attraction.  So  all  the 
morning  she  shopped.  At  noon  she  lunched  in  a 
cheap  restaurant.  In  the  afternoon  she  rooted  out 
an  old  friend  and  went  to  a  candy  store  for  sweets 
and  soda  and  then  to  a  nickel-theater,  where  for  a 
couple  of  hours  she  watched  a  life  even  more 
changeful  and  dramatic  than  that  of  the  stores. 
Romance  filled  her  heart;  she  saw  the  dramas  of 
earth's  end  flashed  on  a  screen;  she  participated 
personally  in  a  very  riot  of  exciting  deeds,  mur 
ders,  love  escapades,  battle  and  crime.  Her  whole 
day  fitted  her  merely  for  another  day  more  ex 
citing.  And  consciously,  poor  Louise,  with  her 
empty  life,  was  but  imitating  the  society  columns 
in  the  evening  paper,  the  society  photographs  in 
the  Sunday  editions;  she  was,  as  far  as  she  could, 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE  191 

living  the  life  of  the  idle  American  woman.  She 
was  restricted,  not  in  appetite  or  possibilities,  but 
merely  in  means.  She  had  not  the  cash. 

Little  Tess,  however,  had  the  most  eventful  day 
of  all.  A  little  before  nine  she  assembled  before 
the  public  school  with  a  large  crowd  of  dripping 
youngsters,  and  then  for  five  dreary  hours,  broken 
by  an  hour  for  lunch,  spent  in  the  dark  playground 
room,  she  droned  over  her  lessons.  The  teacher 
had  to  handle  sixty  children;  there  was  no  per 
sonal  touch  possible;  the  teaching  was  hard  work. 
Small  wonder  was  it  that  Tessie,  tired  and  thin- 
blooded,  made  little  of  her  lessons.  She  seemed 
to  grow  stupider  as  the  day  crawled  on,  and  when 
finally  the  lonely  girl  crept  home  through  the  driz 
zle  and  opened  the  door  of  the  little  flat  and 
passed  into  the  gloomy  rooms,  she  was  utterly 
tired.  She  remembered  that  there  was  meat  to 
boil,  and  that  it  had  better  be  put  right  on.  So 
she  turned  on  the  gas  and  put  on  the  meat. 

But  she  had  been  unusually  stupid.  She  had 
not  lighted  the  gas.  Then,  feeling  faint  and  tired, 
she  curled  up  in  an  armchair  and  fell  asleep.  The 
window  was  closed  against  the  rain;  the  door  to 
the  bedroom  was  shut.  Slowly  the  gas  filled  the 
room,  stronger  and  stronger. 

At  6:15  Paul  swung  down  the  street.  The  rain 
had  stopped;  the  pavements  shone  wet,  and  the 
houses,  touched  with  yellow  light  from  the  West, 


192  PAY  ENVELOPES 

stood  out  so  sharply  that  every  brick  came  dis 
tinct.  Human  faces,  too,  seemed  sharper  than 
life.  It  was  the  never-failing  miracle  of  the  storm 
clearing,  and  the  air  was  so  piercingly  sweet,  that 
sparrows,  in  the  late  light,  chirped  in  the  cornices, 
and  from  wide-flung  windows  came  the  laughter 
of  little  children  and  the  richer  voices  of  men  and 
women.  The  yellow  light,  the  sweet  clean  rain- 
washed  air,  the  beauty  of  the  wet  streets,  blended 
in  one  magic  of  spring.  Everything  was  quiver 
ing  with  new  life,  new  joy.  Paul  paused  at  the 
tenement  entrance  and  looked  at  the  river.  A 
Sound  steamer  swept  by,  flags  flying;  he  heard  the 
orchestra  playing.  The  great  boat  was  sweeping 
out  toward  the  clean,  green  country,  the  vast 
spaces,  the  open  .  .  .  the  open  ...  A 
pang  of  yearning  seized  the  young  man ;  the  pang 
of  the  spring;  the  desire  for  woman  ...  he 
remembered,  in  a  brief  glimpse,  the  old  days  with 
Louise  .  .  .  when  they  sat  on  the  stoop  to 
gether  .  .  .  when  they  came  home  from 
Coney  Island  on  the  excursion  boat.  Two  Italians 
were  playing  the  fiddle  .  .  .  dance-music,  a 
soft  sound  of  slapping  seawater,  lights  in  the  mys 
terious  night,  stars,  copious  stars  sown  overhead, 
the  swaying  sea-tinged  night-air,  lovers  and  fami 
lies  seated  all  about  ...  a  soft  arm  round 
his  neck,  a  cool  cheek  against  his  cheek,  and  sweet 
words. 

The  memory  softened  him.     Sadly  he  ascended 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE  193 

to  his  flat  and  opened  the  door.  At  once  a  strong 
odor  of  gas  blew  in  his  face  and  strangled  him. 
He  gasped;  it  was  like  blackness  descending  on 
him.  He  gazed,  horrified,  and  saw,  in  the 
strange,  yellow  light,  Tessie  —  curled  up  in  the 
armchair.  He  moaned  softly,  rushed  in,  trying 
not  to  breathe,  flung  wide  the  window,  the  door, 
the  window  of  the  bedroom,  stuck  his  head  out, 
took  deep  breaths,  muttered  crazily,  u  Something's 
happened!  Something  terrible's  happened!" 

Then  he  turned  back  bravely,  and  bent  over  the 
little  form. 

"Tess!"  he  cried,  "Tess!  Wake  up!  It's 
Paul!  Tess!  Tess!  Tess!" 

He  shook  her;  he  put  a  hand  under  her  and 
seized  her  up  to  his  breast,  cuddled  her,  looked 
in  her  face  while  his  own  worked  with  suppressed 
sobs. 

"Tess!     Sis!     Tess!" 

He  bore  her  to  his  bed,  and  put  her  softly  on 
the  pillow.  He  dashed  water  in  her  face;  he 
worked  her  arms  up  and  down ;  he  put  a  hand  on 
her  heart.  His  terror  grew,  a  feeling  of  helpless 
ness,  of  awe  and  mystery.  Why,  only  this  morn 
ing  she  had  cooked  his  breakfast! 

Then,  in  wild  fright  he  rushed  from  the  place, 
down  the  street  to  the  doctor.  The  doctor  could 
do  nothing. 

"  She's  dead  .  .  .  been  dead  a  couple  of 
hours." 


i94  PAY  ENVELOPES 

Paul,  with  white  face,  heard  the  words.  He 
was  too  stunned  to  think,  to  realize. 

The  doctor  spoke  sharply: 

"  That  gas  is  still  escaping." 

They  searched  around,  and  traced  it  to  the  stove 
and  stopped  it. 

"  How  did  that  happen?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

"  How?  "  Paul  searched  his  brain,  "  Oh  —  I 
suppose  she  was  cooking  the  supper." 

"That  tot?  She,  cook  supper?"  asked  the 
doctor,  amazed  and  indignant. 

"Why  not?" 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"Eight!" 

The  doctor  looked  at  Paul  sharply. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said,  "  that  child  should 
never  have  done  such  work.  .  .  .  Stay  here. 
I'll  send  for  the  coroner.  No  .  .  .  there's 
nothing  to  do.  Accidental  death !  " 

He  went  out.  Paul,  still  stunned,  went  in  and 
sat  by  the  bedside.  There  was  a  sweet  inrush  of 
air  through  the  open  window,  clearing  the  gas  out, 
and  on  the  sill  a  little  sparrow  was  pluming  him 
self,  sipping  at  rainwater,  and  chirping  liquidly. 
Yellow  was  the  light  outside  and  musical  with  hu 
man  voices.  But  on  the  bed  lay  the  thin  dead 
child;  the  cheeks  pale,  the  eyes  closed,  the  small 
head  nested  in  curly  tresses. 

For  a  time  Paul  had  merely  a  sense  of  paralysis 
.  .  .  a  feeling  of  having  been  hit  a  stunning 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE  195 

blow  on  the  head.  He  stared  long  at  the  silent 
face.  Then  slowly  there  passed  through  him  that 
baffled  feeling  of  being  a  stranger  in  presence  of  a 
stranger.  This  was  not  Tess.  Something  had 
been  sucked  from  the  skull  before  him,  but  the  life 
and  spirit  gone  were  replaced  by  something  serene 
and  solemn  and  high.  This  was  not  Tess;  this 
was  a  quiet  and  wonderful  child.  How  precious 
Tess  was,  now  she  was  gone ! 

His  feeling  grew  sharper  very  suddenly  . 
as  if  someone  within  him  were  vivisecting  his 
heart,  little  sharp  needle-thrusts,  rips  of  a  resistless 
knife  ...  he  shuddered.  And  then,  in  a 
burst  of  clear  vision,  he  realized.  Tess  was  dead ! 
His  wife's  sister!  The  little  child  that  had 
haunted  his  married  life,  a  pale  shadow,  a  jarring 
note,  a  burden,  one  who  ate  up  his  food,  used  up 
his  room.  He  was  rid  of  her  now. 

Rid  of  her?  Again  he  shuddered  .  .  . 
Tess  had  paid  her  way  in  work.  She  had  cooked 
for  him,  waited  on  him,  helped  him  .  .  . 
and  borne  harsh  words  .  .  .  yes,  and  neglect. 
And  now  he  had  lost  her.  How  lost  her?  How 
had  it  happened? 

He  knew.  The  irrepressible  fact  bit  into  his 
heart,  its  teeth  giving  little  nips  of  torture.  Tess 
had  died  doing  Louise's  work.  Whose  fault  was 
it?  Louise  was  to  blame! 

This  fact  went  on  repeating  itself,  bite  after 
bite  as  it  were.  It  was  Louise !  It  was  Louise ! 


196  PAY  ENVELOP 

Perhaps  the  coroner  would  implicate,  entangle 
them.  .  .  .  Was  such  a  thing  murder? 

Sordid  and  dirty  and  narrow  grew  the  world. 
He  was  messed  up  in  something  rotten.  He  had 
stumbled  out  of  his  life  of  routine  and  easy  play 
into  a  chamber  of  horrors.  What  was  the  use  of 
living?  What  was  there  to  live  for?  Louise? 
Tut!  Louise  was  a  shallow  creature!  All  this 
was  her  fault.  A  decent  woman  could  have  made 
things  different  .  .  .  made  a  home,  made 
something  worth  living  for  .  .  .  changed 
him,  too. 

And  then  he  looked  again  at  the  dead.  Quiet 
and  wonderful  was  the  child  ...  no  shadow 
of  change  on  the  now  changeless  face.  Sorrow 
and  neglect  and  stupidity  were  gone.  The  rai 
ment  of  the  last  consecration  was  upon  it  ... 
quiet  and  wonderful.  For  a  moment  the  young 
man  felt  a  sweet  pang  of  something  akin  to 
love  .  .  .  something  like  pity.  Poor  Tess! 
What  had  she  had  out  of  it?  In  the  words  of 
the  song  he  had  often  lightly  hummed,  "  Nobody 
loved  her." 

For  a  moment  a  sentimental  mood  brought 
tears  to  his  eyes  ...  he  leaned  over  .  .  . 
he  touched  the  forehead  with  his  lips  ...  it 
was  cold.  Then  came  frightful  fear. 

He  leaped  up.  He  could  stay  there  no  longer. 
His  heart  was  thumping  hard,  his  face  pale.  .  .  . 
He  rushed  from  the  room,  stood  leaning  on  the 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE  197 

dining-room  table,  looked  here  and  there  .  .  . 
meditated  seeking  the  street  .  .  .  Tess  dead? 
No !  She  had  not  lived  till  this  hour.  Up  to  now 
she  had  been  a  shadowy  phantom  in  the  place. 
Now  the  real  Tess,  released  by  death,  would 
haunt  and  haunt  him.  The  cold  sweat  stood  out 
on  his  face.  He  looked  back  at  the  dim  doorway 
the  room  was  fading  into  deep  twilight 
.  .  .  the  yellow  light  was  dulled  by  gray  shad 
ows  .  .  .  mysterious  shapes  groped  in  the 
corners. 

And  then,  sharply,  a  key  turned  in  the  lock. 
Paul  gave  a  low  cry.  The  door  opened.  Shad 
owy  she  came,  and  silent,  with  subdued  rustling 
of  her  skirts. 

"  Louise !  "  he  cried  low. 

She  said  nothing,  but  went  by  him.  He  saw 
that  her  face  was  white.  He  followed  her.  She 
stood  looking  down  on  Tess  like  a  woman  of  stone. 
He  stood  in  silence  at  her  side. 

Slow  moments  passed  .  .  .  slow,  terrible, 
searching.  In  the  silence  something  more  pro 
found  than  words  was  shared  between  them. 

Then  softly  Louise  turned  and  went  in  the 
kitchen  and  stood  at  the  courtyard  window,  nerv 
ously  playing  with  her  fingers.  Paul  stole  to  her 
side. 

Again  silence.  In  an  upper  window  a  light 
burst,  and  shadows  came  and  went  on  the  walls,  a 
grotesque,  enlarged  woman  .  .  .  Over  the 


198  PAY  ENVELOPES 

lighted  window  the  night  fell,  till  all  save  that 
golden  square  was  lost  and  buried.  Then,  in  the 
penetrating  hush,  Louise  whispered  in  a  voice 
strange  and  unearthly: 

"Paul     ..." 

"  Yes     .     .     .     "he  murmured. 

"  I  know  how  it  happened." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  space :  then  Louise  whis 
pered  : 

"  It's  my  fault     ..." 

The  words  stunned  him.  He  had  not  believed 
her  capable  of  taking  on  any  responsibility.  And 
then  he  heard  her  explain  in  the  same  strange 
voice : 

"  I  ain't  afraid  of  the  truth  anyhow.  I  never 
was.  I've  always  spoke  my  mind." 

They  were  silent  some  time.  Then  Louise 
gave  an  impatient  jerk: 

"Say!" 

"What?" 

"  Say,  anyway  —  " 

He  waited. 

"  Oh,  rats,"  she  cried  explosively,  "  there's  noth 
ing  to  it !  " 

He  gasped:     "To  what?" 

"  The  whole  business." 

"What?" 

"  Oh,  you  and  I  ...  and  all  this  .  .  . 
Darn  it,  I  ain't  been  happy  since  I  married. 


THE  EMPTY  LIFE  199 

He  spoke  hoarsely: 

"  It's  your  own  fault,  Loo  —  all  you  wanted 
was  a  good  time.  Now  you've  had  it." 

"  Quit  it!  "  she  cried,  with  flaming  anger,  "  I 
won't  take  it  from  you !  I  know  what  I've  been. 
Didn't  I  say  it  was  my  fault?  " 

He  was  silenced.  Her  voice  became  strange 
and  unreal  again. 

"Hum!     Now     I'll     have     to     work     again 
>> 

"Work?" 

"  Yes  .  .  .  "  she  laughed  softly,  but  with 
out  emotion,  "  Tess  isn't  here  to  do  it!  " 

Again  he  was  surprised  .  .  .  full  of 
strange  surmises  .  .  .  Had  Louise  any  depth 
after  all? 

"Loo!" 

"Well?" 

His  voice  was  hoarse :     "  Loo !  " 

He  waited,  a  passion  for  her  re-awakening  in 
his  heart.  Then  she  spoke  quietly,  intimately, 
dropping  all  mannerisms,  with  a  simplicity  new 
to  her. 

"  Paul  .  .  .  it's  no  go.  I  can't  go  on 
with  this  empty  sort  of  life.  I  ain't  trained 
to  it  ...  And  can  I  drudge  at  home, 
either?  .  .  .  Shopgirls,  maybe,  have  no  right 
to  marry  .  .  .  You  see  what  comes  of 
it  ...  " 

He  waited.     She  went  on  simply. 


200  PAY  ENVELOPES 

"  Paul  ...  me  for  Macy's  again!  I'm 
going  back  to  the  old  job  .  .  .  It's  better 
than  this  .  .  .  I'll  pay  my  own  way  after 
this  .  .  .  " 

"  You,"  he  gasped,  "  going  back  to  work?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered. 

Save  for  the  splash  of  light  from  the  upper  win 
dow,  they  were  swallowed  in  total  blackness. 
Deep  was  the  silence,  and  it  seemed  ever  to  grow 
deeper.  Then  suddenly  in  the  hush  and  darkness 
Louise  sent  out  a  cry: 

"Paul!     Paul!" 

"Louise!" 

They  flung  their  arms  round  each  other.  And 
a  strange  feeling  came  into  the  young  man's  heart 
—  that  perhaps  there  was  another  Louise  buried 
deep  in  this  one,  and  perhaps  the  future  —  the 
long  future  —  held  a  promise. 


THE  YOUNG  MAN 


THE  YOUNG  MAN 

AYOUNG  man  was  digging  in  a  huge  medical 
book  in  the  tiny  kitchen.  He  was  in  his  un 
dershirt,  which  clung  to  him,  dripping  wet,  and 
showed  a  frail,  narrow-chested  and  sunken  body. 
In  the  blaze  of  the  gas-jet  his  thin  face  looked 
fearfully  white  under  rough  and  mussed  brown 
hair.  About  his  burning  eyes  were  rings  of  sleep 
lessness  and  exhaustion. 

He  was  hardly  studying  in  that  narrow  inside 
room.  A  helpless  rage  made  him  tremble,  and 
now  and  then,  in  a  burst  of  despair,  he  put  his 
hand  to  his  mouth  and  bit  deep  at  the  fleshy  part 
between  thumb  and  first  finger.  For  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  the  millions  of  the  city  had  risen  in  a 
roaring  storm  about  him;  a  crazy  whirlwind  of 
cries  and  shrieks  and  calls  and  laughter;  a  fury 
that  increased  with  the  heat  of  the  midsummer 
evening.  The  tenement,  up  and  down,  was  a  bed 
lam  of  disorder;  and  in  the  small  adjoining  room 
there  were  four  of  his  relatives  making  shrill  noise. 

The  toothless  and  skinny  grandmother  sat  at 
the  edge  of  one  of  the  iron  beds;  the  young  man's 
father,  stocky,  hard-headed,  sat  at  a  window;  Eva, 
the  cross-eyed  fat  good-natured  little  girl  of  twelve 

203 


204  PAY  ENVELOPES 

stood  leaning  at  the  table;  and  striding  up  and 
down  went  a  gaudy,  painted  woman  —  the  dis 
grace  of  the  family. 

There  were  two  beds  in  that  back  room,  one 
for  the  grandmother  and  Eva;  the  other  for  the 
painted  woman,  who  was  the  father's  sister.  The 
father  and  his  son  slept  on  the  floor  of  the  kitchen. 

Up  and  down  went  the  painted  woman  —  very 
pitiable,  for  she  was  wasted  by  disease;  carefully 
hidden  in  cheap  finery  and  rouge.  Her  wide  nose, 
her  bold  black  eyes,  her  thick  lips,  and  the  heavy 
coils  of  her  false  hair,  gave  her  face  a  coarse 
stamp.  Eva  watched  her  carelessly;  her  Aunt 
Jennie  was  a  familiar  part  of  her  life. 

Jennie  paused  before  the  father  and  spoke  in 
a  voice  plainly  heard  by  the  young  man : 

"  Sam,  you're  a  fool !  Why  don't  you  set  Na- 
han  to  work  ?  A  fine  mess  here !  Not  enough  to 
eat!" 

Sam  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders,  and  puffed 
on  an  ugly  short  pipe. 

"  You  set  him  to  work,  if  you  can.  Anybody 
can  talk." 

The  grandmother  began  to  whine. 

"  Oi !  oi !  oi !  "  She  rocked  back  and  forth 
"  So  sick!  so  sick!  so  sick!  " 

Jennie  turned  to  her. 

"  Well,"  she  cried  fiercely,  "  must  I  go  out  and 
earn  some  more  money  for  you?  " 

The  grandmother  went  on  rocking  herself. 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  205 

"  I  don't  want  to  die.  If  I  die,  what  happens 
to  the  children?  So  sick!  so  sick!  " 

Sam  growled : 

"  She's  got  stomach-cramps.  She  wants  some 
of  the  red  medicine.  That's  what  she  wants." 

Eva  spoke  pleasantly: 

"  I  could  fix  a  hot  bag  for  you,  grandma,  and 
massage  your  legs." 

Jennie  spoke  in  anger: 

"  It's  all  Nahan's  fault  —  a  big  boy  like  that! 
Why  ain't  he  earning  money?  Studying  to  be  a 
doctor  —  huh !  He  ought  to  be  spanked  and  put 
in  his  place!  " 

Nahan  rose  from  his  book.  He  was  trem 
bling,  and  his  head  pained  him.  He  felt  that  the 
end  of  all  had  come.  He  had  no  control  over 
himself,  but  seemed  to  be  a  toy  in  the  hands  of 
something  greater  —  a  fury  that  used  his  muscles 
and  spoke  through  his  lips.  White-faced,  eyes 
blazing,  frail  body  erect,  he  appeared  in  the  door 
way. 

"  You  damn  fools !  "  he  burst  out. 

They  all  turned,  suddenly  interested,  absorbed, 
their  souls  keyed  tense.  Things  had  come  to  a 
head. 

Nahan  rushed  on: 

"You  —  you  blockheads!"  He  spoke  to  his 
father.  "  Not  enough  food,  eh?  Five  of  us  live 
like  animals  in  two  rooms,  eh?  And  you  want 
to  set  me  to  work?  You  want  to  spoil  my  career 


206  PAY  ENVELOPES 

after  all  these  years  of  getting  ready?  After  all 
my  struggles?  Now,  now,  when  I'm  just  ready 
to  begin?" 

He  shook  his  fist  at  Sam. 

"Well,  you  won't  do  it!  Get  to  work  your 
self,  you  big  husky  fellow!  Don't  you  think  I 
know?  You  loaf  around,  you  bum  around,  you 
gossip,  you  don't  try  to  get  any  work.  You  could 
support  a  family  of  six.  It's  you,  you  loafer!  " 

He  paused  a  moment.  Eva's  eyes  were  bulg 
ing;  the  grandmother  shook  her  head;  Jennie 
was  frozen  with  amazement,  and  Sam  grunted  and 
snouted  his  nose.  Then  at  last  Jennie  found  her 
tongue : 

"  Do  you  know  you're  talking  to  your  father?  " 

"  Father!  "  cried  Nahan  tragically.  "  Father! 
It's  not  my  fault  he's  my  father.  I  don't  thank 
him  for  letting  me  into  this  rotten  world.  Father ! 
It  takes  more  than  blood  to  make  a  father !  " 

Sam  grunted: 

"  He's  crazy." 

Nahan  turned  sharply  to  the  grandmother. 

"And  you  —  sick  are  you?  I've  told  you  a 
hundred  times  what's  the  matter  with  you.  You 
need  food.  You  don't  get  enough  to  eat." 

"  Shut  up !  "  cried  Jennie. 

He  turned  to  her,  and  lifted  a  hand: 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,  you  — "  He  paused,  and 
whispered,  u  You  know  what  you  are !  And  you 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  207 

come  in  here  where  there's  an  innocent  young 
girl—'; 

Jennie  cut  him  off;  she  stood  straight,  and  some 
thing  magnificent  went  into  her  voice  and  her  ges 
ture: 

"Nahan!  Nahan!  who  pays  the  rent  here? 
Who  brings  the  food?  " 

Nahan  stared  at  her,  horror  on  his  white,  drip 
ping  face. 

"  I  know,"  he  whispered,  "  but—" 

She  came  nearer : 

"  Now  listen  to  me,  my  grand  young  man.  It's 
/  that  have  seen  you  through  college.  It's  what  / 
earn."  There  was  a  sob  in  her  voice.  "  I've 
given  my  body,  my  health,  my  good  looks,  my 
life — "  she  paused — "  my  life,  for  the  bunch  of 
you.  And  soon,"  her  voice  sank,  "  I'll  be  good 
for  nothing  but  the  river.  What  more  could  I  do 
for  you  ?  Does  it  matter  what  names  you  call  me  ?  " 

Nahan  drew  nearer.  He  spoke  under  his 
breath : 

"  I  won't  live  on  you.  No,  nor  on  any  of  you. 
You've  spoilt  my  life.  I  — "  he  laughed  harshly, 
"  I'm  going  to  kill  myself!  " 

He  turned  back  into  the  kitchen.  The  rear 
room  was  strangely  still,  as  he  put  on  his  shirt, 
drew  on  his  jacket,  and  got  down  his  old  straw 
hat.  He  passed  out  into  the  hall  just  as  Sam  ap 
peared  in  the  kitchen,  crying, 


208  PAY  ENVELOPES 

"  Nahan !     Nahan !  " 

He  trudged  down  the  stairs.  Sam  called  from 
the  top: 

"  Nahan!" 

But  he  went  on,  pushing  beside  youngsters 
sprawling  on  the  dim  steps.  He  went  out  into  the 
street,  and  began  jostling,  wedging  his  way  through 
the  innumerable  throng.  It  was  as  if  the  human 
race  had  been  scooped  up  by  mighty  hands  and 
dumped  in  this  spot  from  the  sky  down,  the  fire- 
escapes  and  open  windows  hung  with  people,  and 
the  huge  swarm  crawled  all  over  the  pavements, 
the  gutters,  the  cross-streets  —  like  a  bit  of  rot 
ting  fruit  overrun  with  vermin,  was  Nahan's 
vague  thought.  A  sweaty  people,  a  ragged 
people,  a  push  and  jerk  of  long  white  beards,  of 
perspiring  faces,  of  odorous  bodies;  a  getting  be 
tween  the  legs  of  numberless  running  and  shriek 
ing  children.  The  shops  jutting  onto  the  pave  ed 
died  with  life;  the  popcorn  stand  with  its  torch  and 
shaker,  the  ice-cream  cart,  the  little  soda-counters 
open  to  the  night,  were  circled  black  with  buyers. 
Daubing  the  faces  and  forms  were  shop-lights  and 
street-lamps  —  gold,  milky-white,  blue  —  and  the 
heavens,  though  a  reddish-yellow  moon  hung  in 
haze,  were  forgotten. 

All  that  Nahan  knew  was  that  he  wanted  to  die. 
Just  how  or  where  he  did  not  know.  But  die  — 
get  out  of  this  —  leave  this  racked  body  and  tor 
tured  mind  —  this  world  of  verminous  people  — 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  209 

escape,  that  was  the  word.  There  are  suicides 
every  day  among  the  four  million  herded  people, 
and  many  of  them  are  just  such  overwrought  Na- 
hans.  It  seemed  to  him  that  from  the  moment 
of  his  birth  he  had  been  going  to  pieces  and  that 
now  the  final  dissolution  had  inevitably  come.  At 
birth  he  had  started  equal  with  other  babies;  was 
it  his  fault  that  he  had  been  underfed,  and  so  be 
came  a  weak  and  white  little  child,  with  spells  of 
sickness  and  stupidity  all  his  school-days?  And 
yet  his  brain  had  remained  feverishly  active.  For 
that  he  had  sacrificed  his  body;  throwing  all  his 
strength  into  mental  work;  neglecting  exercise  and 
fresh  air  and  rest  and  recreation.  And  so  he  had 
triumphed  and  gone  to  the  city  college  and  then  to 
the  medical  school.  He  had  pulled  through  and 
graduated.  He  was  ready  for  hospital-work. 

But  what  had  availed  the  forced  march  on  suc 
cess?  His  outraged  body,  after  the  manner  of 
Nature,  had  turned  against  him.  He  was  all 
"nerves";  he  was  so  weak  that  an  hour's  study 
upset  his  stomach;  and  besides  he  had  become  mor 
bid.  There  were  nights  when  he  lay  awake  in  the 
fear  of  death;  watching  his  own  breathing,  the 
beat  of  his  own  heart  and  pulse,  the  vivid  reality 
of  his  brain,  and  dreading  horribly  the  annihila 
tion  to  come.  There  were  days  when  he  was  so 
sensitive  to  color  that  the  advertisements  in  a  street 
car  made  him  nauseous,  days  when  he  was  so  sen 
sitive  to  sound  that  he  could  not  put  his  mind  on 


210  PAY  ENVELOPES 

his  work.  Worst  of  all,  he  was  sensitive  about  his 
appearance,  his  clothes,  and  his  race.  Up  at  the 
college  they  looked  down  on  the  young  Jew  who 
was  pushing  his  way  from  the  Ghetto  to  the  places 
of  power.  He  belonged  to  a  despised  race. 

And  then  the  miserable  poverty!  The  two 
rooms  at  home,  the  indecent  crowding,  the  roaches 
and  bed  bugs,  the  whining  grandmother,  the 
shame  of  his  aunt,  the  noise,  the  days  without 
food,  the  publicity  of  the  place,  so  that  he  had  no 
where  to  study,  nowhere  to  go  off  and  consult  his 
own  heart,  "  invite  his  soul."  And  that  deepest 
need  of  a  young  man  —  an  older  man  who  under 
stood  —  was  not  met  for  him.  He  was  fighting 
his  way  alone,  despised,  poor,  frail,  sick,  misunder 
stood.  What  wonder  that  he  came  to  look  on  life 
as  a  lie,  on  people  as  animal-enemies,  on  death  as 
betrayal  only  less  terrible  than  the  betrayal  of 
birth? 

But  now  he  would  escape.  He  would  leap  in 
the  river,  or  buy  a  revolver,  or  lock  himself  in  and 
turn  on  the  gas.  He  feared  death  no  longer. 
Life  was  too  terrible.  Could  he  go  on  living  on 
the  earnings  of  a  prostitute?  Used  as  he  was  to 
the  shame  of  his  aunt,  familiar  with  it  from  his 
unquestioning  child-days,  to-night  he  realized  how 
terrible  his  lot  was.  And  why  go  on?  Would  a 
neurotic,  sick,  morbid  man  make  a  good  doctor? 
Was  he  fit  to  be  a  healer?  Could  he  bring  others 
health,  he,  who  had  none  himself?  And  the  sul- 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  211 

try  night  which  was  setting  a  whole  city  on  edge, 
seemed  the  final  argument  in  his  self-arraignment. 

Die  —  he  would  die !  He  would  end  the  sor 
did  tale !  Jennie  should  cease  to  earn  money  for 
him;  he  would  get  out  of  the  way;  there  would  be 
one  mouth  less  to  feed,  one  body  less  to  house  and 
clothe. 

Driven  by  these  wild  thoughts,  he  shot  out  of 
the  side-street  and  into  tiny  Seward  Park,  that 
breathing-space  in  the  crowded  Ghetto,  that 
square  open  to  the  sky  and  the  air.  But  the  lines 
of  benches  and  the  walks  were  thick  with  people 
— •  mothers,  babies,  children,  men  —  so  packed  to 
gether  under  the  white  lights  and  between  the  high 
iron-fences  that  they  were  as  badly  off  as  in  the 
streets.  Endless  crowded  city !  Where  was  there 
in  all  the  hundred  thousand  acres  a  nook  of  quiet 
and  peace  and  cool  seclusion? 

Nahan  went  on  wildly,  a  strange  sight  —  his  hat 
tilted  back  on  the  overflowing  hair,  his  face  more 
haggard  than  he  could  know,  his  shirt  collarless 
and  open  at  the  neck,  his  whole  face  and  bearing 
distorted  and  abnormal. 

Suddenly  his  mind  was  made  up : 

"  I'll  fling  myself  in  the  river!  " 

He  abruptly  left  the  park  and  walked  east 
along  the  narrow  crowded  side-street.  This  was 
his  last  walk.  To-morrow  they  would  fish  up  his 
body,  and  then  they  would  know  what  ruin  they 
had  wrought.  He  hurried  feverishly,  and  was  a 


212  PAY  ENVELOPES 

little  angry  when  he  found  his  way  impeded  by  a 
compact  crowd  on  the  pavement  that  seemed  to 
encircle  some  object  of  unusual  interest.  He  tried 
to  force  his  way  through ;  when,  startlingly,  a  deep 
bass  voice  boomed  through  the  air  above  the  noise 
and  chatter: 

"  Is  there  a  doctor  in  this  crowd?  " 

He  stopped.  By  a  swift  flash  he  realized  that 
he  was  a  doctor,  and  that  here  was  a  dire  need  of 
his  service.  Almost  involuntarily  he  cried  out 
shrilly  : 

"  I'm  a  doctor.     Let  me  see." 

At  once  the  crowd  parted  for  him,  though  many 
turning  about  and  seeing  that  strange  disheveled 
young  man,  were  rather  dubious.  A  woman,  in 
ragged  clothes,  was  lying  against  the  stoop,  and 
over  her  stood  a  large  heavy-set  man.  This  man 
looked  at  Nahan  suspiciously. 

"You*  doctor?" 

The  doubt  in  the  man's  voice  touched  some  hid 
den  spring  of  pride.  Nahan  straightened  up. 

"I'm  Dr.  Mahler,"  he  said  sharply.  "Let 
me  see  the  woman."  He  wheeled  on  the  crowd 
and  raised  his  voice.  "Get  back,  will  you? 
Give  her  some  air.  Get  back!  " 

There  was  authority  in  the  voice.  All  these 
years  Nahan  had  been  training  for  just  this.  He 
knelt  swiftly  beside  the  moaning,  ragged  woman. 

"Shall  I  ring  for  an  ambulance?"  asked  the 
big  man. 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  213 

"  No  hospital,"  shrieked  the  woman,  "  No  hos 
pital!" 

Nahan  was  not  an  experienced  doctor.  He 
leaned  close. 

"  Hush!  It's  all  right!  "  He  looked  up  and 
spoke  hard.  "  There's  a  child  coming.  We 
need  a  room  —  a  bed !  "  Then  he  stood  up,  des 
perate. 

"  Any  place  here  we  can  take  this  woman?  " 

A  fat  slovenly  woman  answered  him : 

"  Ya  —  take  her  in  my  place  —  right  in  dis 
house,  Doktor  —  right  on  the  right,  ground  floor 
—  right  in  dere !  " 

"  Catch  hold  of  her,  you !  " 

The  big  man,  and  another,  seized  the  woman, 
and  Nahan  caught  her  under  one  arm,  and  they 
carried  her  into  that  vile  dark  house,  and  into  a 
cramped  smothering  bedroom  and  laid  her  on  the 
bed.  The  fat  woman  lit  the  gas,  revealing  the 
squalor  and  confusion  of  the  crowded  room.  The 
woman  on  the  bed  whined  pitifully. 

Nahan  turned  fiercely  on  the  men : 

"  Hurry  out!" 

And  then  to  the  fat  woman :  "  Hot  water  — 
quick!  And  keep  people  out!  " 

He  flung  off  his  coat  and  hat;  he  rolled  up  his 
sleeves. 

For  four  mortal  hours  that  battle  lasted  —  four 
mysterious  hours  while  the  woman  shrieked,  and 
Nahan,  forgetful. of  self,  absorbed  in  his  work, 


2i4  PAY  ENVELOPES 

concentrating  all  his  forces  on  the  life  of  mother 
and  child,  toiled  terribly  over  a  woman  he  had 
never  seen  before  —  a  woman  picked  up  in  the 
streets.  And  the  fat  woman,  mother  of  five  chil 
dren,  was  there  at  his  side,  silent,  watchful,  help 
ful,  with  quick  practical  suggestions,  with  deft  as 
sistance.  Nahan,  who  for  four  years  had  been 
facing  theories,  now  faced  a  reality.  He  sud 
denly  found  a  huge  responsibility  resting  on  his 
shoulders;  it  was  he  who  was  in  charge,  he  who 
had  to  win,  he  who  had  to  bring  the  mother  and 
child  through  alive.  At  one  moment  he  was  pan 
ic-stricken.  What  if,  after  all,  his  theories  didn't 
work?  But  work  they  had  to,  he  told  himself 
fiercely.  He  could  not  lose.  He  had  to  swing 
through  to  success.  And  then  he  was  so  busy  that 
he  had  no  time  to  think.  He  had  to  act,  act;  do: 
grapple  with  Nature:  bend  every  energy  to  his 
task. 

And  so  he  fought  until  that  strange  final  mo 
ment  when  it  seems  as  if  the  Earth  were  going  up 
in  the  smoke  of  a  miracle;  when  the  unbelievable 
comes  true;  when  forth  from  one  human  body 
emerges  another  —  weird,  real,  miraculous  —  and 
a  new  cry  is  lifted  in  the  world. 

Silent  now  were  the  streets  outside;  hushed  was 
the  wide  city  with  its  spread  of  life;  and  in  the  lit 
tle  room  a  young  man  stood,  bowed  over  the  back 
of  a  chair,  wilted,  white,  and  stunned.  He  looked 
down  on  the  bed,  where  lay  a  quiet  woman  and  a 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  215 

quiet  baby,  side  by  side.  The  victory  had  been 
won.  The  child,  the  mother  lived. 

And  the  young  man,  gazing  on  that  sight,  had 
his  first  great  experience  of  life  —  felt  the  mystery, 
the  wonder,  the  power  brooding  over  all,  the  great 
creativeness  of  the  world,  the  reality  of  which  he 
was  a  part. 

"  Ya,"  he  heard  the  fat  woman  sob,  "  a  little 
girl!  a  little  girl!  " 

He  put  on  his  coat  and  hat;  he  stumbled  into 
the  front  room.  Children,  two  men,  and  a  young 
woman  crowded  about  him.  They  were  laughing 
and  crying.  And  the  fat  woman  spoke  in  his 
ear: 

"  You  are  a  good  doktor !  a  very  fine  doktor ! 
Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

He  turned  dazedly : 

"  I'll  be  in  to-morrow!  " 

He  looked  round  at  those  human  faces.  And 
suddenly  a  sweet  and  sharp  pang  visited  his  heart. 
What,  were  these  people  vermin?  These  people 
who  gave  up  their  bed  for  a  woman  picked  up  in 
the  street?  These  people  who  wept  over  the 
stranger  and  the  new  child?  Were  these  "ver 
min"? 

He  went  out  on  the  empty  sidewalk:  he  passed 
beneath  the  lonely  lamps.  The  sinking  moon 
hung  reddish-yellow  down  the  street.  His  foot 
steps  echoed  among  the  silent  walls,  and  gazing  up 
he  saw  dark  sleeping  forms  on  the  fire-escapes. 


216  PAY  ENVELOPES 

And  then  he  knew.  He  knew  that  he  was  not 
alone  in  trouble;  not  alone  in  poverty  and  tragedy. 
He  knew  that  he  was  one  of  a  mighty  people.  He 
had  a  new  sense  of  the  miracle  of  life :  the  mystery 
and  joy  and  depth  of  human  nature.  And  more, 
he  knew  now  that  he  had  been  a  failure;  he  had 
fled  from  life;  until  that  moment  when  responsi 
bility  had  been  thrust  upon  him.  He  rose  to  the 
occasion:  he  forged  realities  out  of  theories:  he 
was  graduating  in  the  school  of  hard  facts.  And 
he  found  that  he  was  thrilling  with  the  joy  of  it  — 
thrilling  with  the  fight  of  life.  This  it  was  to  be  a 
man  —  to  swing  into  the  fight,  to  overcome,  to 
achieve,  to  pull  victory  out  of  defeat. 

And  he  looked  back  on  his  thought  of  suicide 
as  the  thought  of  a  demented  boy.  Suicide? 
While  life  held  so  much?  such  possibilities?  such 
battles?  such  heroism?  such  love  and  miracles? 
Though  he  trembled  now  with  sheer  physical  ex 
haustion,  he  knew  that  those  four  hours  of  for 
getting  self,  of  self-expression,  of  hard  fight  had 
made  him  over. 

And  then,  as  he  tramped  down  the  dark  familiar 
street,  he  thought  of  his  father,  his  grandmother, 
and  Eva  and  Jennie.  Something  choked  his 
throat.  He  saw  their  narrow  lives,  their  strug 
gles,  their  efforts  to  help  him  through  school. 
Did  they  squabble  and  make  noise?  Yes,  but  at 
the  same  time,  quietly  and  effectively,  they  cleared 
his  way  for  him.  And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  217 

that  Jennie  had  something  of  grandeur  in  her 
make-up.  She  was  vulgar,  lost,  a  woman  of  the 
streets;  but  he  knew  something  of  her  story,  of 
how  she  had  been  betrayed  and  kept  down  by  pov 
erty;  and  in  the  light  of  this,  her  efforts  to  help  the 
family  and  to  help  him  seemed  to  reveal  a  secret 
beauty,  something  unlost,  unspoiled,  in  her  very  hu 
man  nature. 

Full  of  these  thoughts  he  hurried  up  the  steps. 
To-morrow  he  would  speak  to  them.  Then,  in 
amazement,  he  stopped.  The  door  was  open, 
the  lights  still  burning.  He  rushed  in.  The 
four  were  still  up,  haggard,  visibly  frightened,  the 
father  walking  up  and  down.  They  leaped  up  as 
he  entered. 

"  Nahan!  "  cried  the  father,  "  Nahan!  " 

"Father!"  he  cried. 

The  grandmother  sobbed: 

"  I  knew  Nahan  come  back !  " 

Lrttle  Eva  clung  to  him,  weeping. 

And  Jenny  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"  I  know,  Nahan,  I  hadn't  ought  to  be  here,  on 
account  of  Eva.  I'll  live  somewhere  else.  And 
Sam  —  Sam'll  work." 

Nahan  spoke  with  breaking  voice : 

"  Give  me  a  few  years  more,  and  I'll  help  you 
all!" 

And  through  his  voice  leaked  a  great  fact.  He 
was  a  boy  no  longer.  He  was  a  man. 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN 

A  T  one  o'clock  that  warm  spring  morning  Lizzie 
went  out  the  inside  door  of  the  cheap  and  dim 
saloon  and  climbed  with  her  can  of  beer  up  three 
black  flights  of  stairs  in  the  same  tenement.  She 
was  perfectly  sober,  but  she  cursed  aloud.  This 
was  the  eighth  time  the  last  five  hours  that  she  had 
"  rushed  the  growler."  She  felt  like  a  mass  of 
aches  and  began  to  be  dizzy  with  tiredness. 

About  her  the  tenement  roared  fitfully  from  the 
saloon  to  the  roof  and  the  air  reeked  with  the 
stale  smell  of  whiskey,  beer,  tobacco,  and  that 
sweaty  odor  of  overcrowded  men  and  women. 
Lizzie  stood  panting  a  moment  outside  the  door 
of  the  fourth  floor  rear.  The  clatter  of  chips,  the 
flash  of  profane  words,  the  shouts  of  laughter 
came  through  and  set  her  cursing  again.  Then 
she  pushed  in  the  door. 

The  little  square  room  was  a  fog  of  smoke 
through  which  beamed  dazzlingly  the  large  naked 
gas-flame  in  the  center.  Under  the  light  stood  a 
dilapidated  six-legged  round  table,  and  at  the  ta 
ble  were  five  men  playing  cards.  These  men,  in 
trousers  and  woolen  undershirts,  were  of  a  hardy 
stock,  with  muscular  arms  and  strong  labor-faces. 

221 


222  PAY  ENVELOPES 

It  was  good  to  see  the  sweat  on  them,  for  they 
were  men  of  the  sun  and  earth,  men  of  the  Bo 
hemian  peasantry,  new-landed,  alien,  fresh. 

One  of  these  men,  a  very  short  little  fellow, 
with  big  mustache  jutting  straight  out  to  a  point 
either  side  of  his  big  mouth,  his  eyes  shifty,  his 
forehead  worry-wrinkled,  his  complexion  unusually 
pallid,  looked  up  as  Lizzie  entered,  and  motioned 
her  to  set  the  beer  at  his  side. 

She  did  so,  moving  through  the  room  with  diffi 
culty,  for  it  was  crowded  with  stove,  cupboard, 
and  a  big  bed  in  the  window-corner.  Then  Liz 
zie  sat  down  at  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  darned  the 
little  fellow's  socks.  She  sat  half-doubled,  back 
curved,  her  rough  calico  garments  wet  with  per 
spiration.  Her  face  was  strikingly  ugly,  and  at 
tractive.  The  thin,  large  nose  broke  sharply  at 
the  bridge,  the  cheeks  were  thin,  the  cheek-bones 
high,  and  the  dark  hair  was  clumped  in  a  meager, 
straggly  knot.  But  about  her,  too,  clung  traces 
of  the  elemental  —  sun,  wind,  soil  left  their  spirit 
in  her  eyes,  and  it  was  not  hard  to  think  of  her  as 
a  peasant  girl  toiling  with  the  men  in  the  open 
fields. 

For  an  hour  —  with  now  and  then  her  head  sag 
ging  as  she  dozed  off  —  she  darned  socks  while 
the  men  roared  with  mirth  or  sang  together  while 
the  cards  were  dealt,  and  the  smoke  thickened 
upon  her.  The  little  fellow  was  drunk.  Sud 
denly  he  turned  toward  her. 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN  223 

«  You  — "  he  shouted,  "  beer !  beer !  " 

Lizzie  started  out  of  her  doze,  and  six  months 
of  struggle  were  touched  off  like  powder.  She 
went  crazy,  blood  flooding  her  head.  She  stiff 
ened  up,  stepped  to  his  side,  and  laid  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"Max!" 

He  looked  up  at  her  drunkenly. 

"Beer!  beer!" 

Her  words  came  as  if  through  the  fog  of  her 
excitement  —  suppressed,  but  a  little  wild. 

"  You  go  straight  to  bed,  Max.  It's  two 
o'clock!" 

He  laid  down  his  cards,  hard. 

"Say  that  again!"     His  voice  was  menacing. 

She  now  spoke  more  wildly: 

"  You're  going  to  bed,  Max  —  now!  " 

He  struck  the  table  with  his  fist. 

"You  dirty  hag,"  he  growled,  "take  that!" 
And  he  raised  his  glass  and  shot  the  dregs  of  beer 
in  her  face. 

The  four  other  men  laughed  harshly ;  they  were 
not  unused  to  such  scenes. 

Lizzie's  hands  went  to  her  smarting  face,  and 
then  suddenly,  as  if  she  were  a  mere  machine  in 
the  grip  of  some  higher  power,  her  fists  began  to 
beat  down  upon  him,  madly,  blindly,  incoherently. 
Under  the  blows  he  tried  to  rise  to  his  feet,  but 
sank  down  again,  impotently  drunk,  howling  foul 
language. 


224  PAY  ENVELOPES 

The  others  staggered  up,  laughing,  jesting, 
good-natured,  and  pulled  off  the  woman.  They 
got  her  into  a  chair  at  the  open  window,  and  she 
leaned  her  head  on  the  sill  and  sobbed  convulsively. 
Max  loosed  an  interminable  stream  of  verbal  filth, 
which  gradually  died  low,  until  at  last,  with 
arms  and  head  stretched  over  the  table,  he  fell 
asleep. 

The  four  men  lurched  into  the  adjoining  room 
—  a  black  inner  hole  —  and  went  to  bed.  That 
room,  small  as  it  was,  held  four  double  beds,  and 
already  five  men  were  in  it  asleep.  The  nine 
slept  three  in  one  of  the  beds,  two  in  the  others. 

A  long  hour  passed,  the  house  still  shaking  at 
times  with  its  uproar,  Max  snoring,  Lizzie  crying 
on  the  sill.  A  wind  sprang  up  in  the  back 
yards  and  came  through  the  open  window,  blow 
ing  the  gas-flame  back  and  forth  in  the  still  air. 
Lizzie  felt  the  sweet  freshness  of  spring,  and  be 
gan  to  settle  into  a  hard  and  wide-awake  calm. 
Her  brain  was  crowded  with  quick,  unbidden 
thoughts.  All  of  the  bitter  past  went  through 
her. 

It  was  a  curious  enough  story  —  common 
enough,  too.  Five  years  before  she  had  landed 
at  Ellis  Island,  a  woman  good  to  look  upon.  The 
doctors  did  not  have  to  examine  her.  She  lustily, 
eagerly,  dragged  with  one  hand,  backed  by  a  steel- 
muscled  arm,  an  enormous  strapped  bundle  of 
clothes  and  household  articles.  Health  and  out- 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN  225 

door  power  fairly  radiated  from  her  face,  and  the 
supple  lines  of  her  body  under  the  rough  clothes 
showed  as  she  walked  with  something  of  a  wild 
animal's  grace.  She  was  eighteen,  and  looked  and 
acted  twenty-five. 

At  the  Battery,  New  York,  an  employment 
agent,  one  of  her  countrymen,  snapped  her  up  with 
promise  of  a  good  job.  For  two  weeks  he  charged 
her  board  in  his  crowded  flat.  During  those  two 
weeks  she  learned  of  the  Bohemian  centers  of  the 
city  —  the  tenements,  dance-halls,  cafes.  She 
also  learned  the  ease  with  which  the  immigrant 
girl  may  drift  into  vice  —  but  she  was  too  healthy- 
hearted,  and  she  was  lucky.  At  the  end  of  a  fort 
night  a  middle-class  woman  of  East  Sixty-fifth 
Street,  who  had  been  making  a  three-months' 
search  for  a  girl  willing  to  "  work,"  spotted  Liz 
zie  and  engaged  her  at  twenty  dollars  a  month. 
That  seemed  big  wages  at  the  time. 

The  house  was  four  stories,  the  family  seven, 
and  Lizzie  was  the  only  "  girl."  She  had  the 
rear  top  floor  hall  bedroom  to  sleep  in;  she  had 
a  night  a  week  off;  and  her  boss  speeded  her  up 
like  any  factory-foreman.  But  she  thrived.  She 
loved  hard  work;  she  was  a  demon  of  the  broom, 
the  tub,  the  mop;  she  gloried  as  she  shoveled  the 
snow  from  the  pavement  in  winter;  she  sang  folk 
songs  as  she  washed  at  five  on  Monday  mornings; 
but  she  was  too  vigorous  a  cook,  producing  the 
ironware  articles  that  laborers  love,  but  that  mid- 


226  PAY  ENVELOPES 

die-class  stomachs  are  wrecked  upon.  Yet  gradu 
ally  here  too  she  pushed  her  level  up. 

Out  of  her  twenty  a  month  she  saved  fourteen, 
sending  ten  back  to  Europe,  and  secretly  hoarding 
up  four.  At  the  end  of  two  years  she  had  $96.00. 

It  was  her  night-a-week  out  that  decided  her 
life.  In  one  of  the  Avenue  A  dance-halls  she 
met  Michael  Hudak,  a  worker  in  the  Staten  Island 
steel  mills.  Hudak  was  a  mighty  growth  of  man, 
his  big  hands  hard  and  black  with  his  toil,  his 
strong,  smooth  round  face  open  and  honest. 
The  dark  eyes  were  small,  the  nose  broad,  the 
lips  big  and  human,  the  flesh  tough.  Michael 
and  Lizzie  fell  in  love  with  each  other.  They 
were  well  mated,  a  son  and  daughter  of  toil,  thor 
oughly  rooted  in  the  earth.  But  he  was  slow  of 
speech,  crudely  passionate,  and  clumsy.  He 
sometimes  avoided  Lizzie  because  he  was  choked 
up  with  love,  and  so  in  time  she  had  her  fits  of 
jealousy. 

One  mad  Thursday  night  she  danced  and 
danced  with  Max  Koval,  the  little  baker,  while 
Michael  went  about  tragically  with  another 
woman.  Lizzie  had  one  of  her  frenzies.  Late 
in  the  night  she  suggested  to  the  sandy  little  baker 
that  they  run  off  together.  She  would  get  even 
with  Michael.  Koval,  who  had  been  married 
once  before,  had  use  for  a  woman.  Lizzie  would 
do;  but  he  said  he  had  no  money.  In  a  wild 
whirl  of  passion  —  jealousy,  anger,  love  —  she 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN  227 

hurried  home,  threw  her  things  together  in  a  bun 
dle,  shoved  her  $96.00  in  her  stocking,  and 
slipped  away  at  five  A.  M.  She  left  a  note  saying 
she  had  gone  to  get  married. 

Max  and  Lizzie  feared  Michael.  So  they 
went  out  to  a  Bohemian  farm  colony  in  Ohio. 
Then  suddenly  Lizzie  took  up  the  troubles  of  a 
woman's  life.  Bakers  were  not  needed  on  the 
farms,  and  the  little  man  was  no  farmer  and 
didn't  care  to  be  one.  He  began  at  once  that 
shift  of  position  practised  so  widely  among  certain 
of  the  poor.  He  played  the  "lady;"  she  the 
man.  He  said  to  her:  "  Last  time  I  had  a  woman 
I  didn't  have  to  work.  Why  should  I  now?" 
At  that  time,  too,  he  began  to  beat  her.  The 
money  dwindled  away  to  nothing;  they  were 
stranded. 

Then,  in  despair,  Lizzie  sat  down  and  wrote  a 
wild  letter  of  remorse  and  appeal  to  her  former 
boss,  and  because  this  latter  was  still  without  a 
girl,  she  sent  Lizzie  a  money-order  to  pay  the 
passage,  and  told  her  to  return  and  repay  the  loan 
in  labor.  So  back  they  came,  and  the  husband 
was  allowed  to  share  the  hall-bedroom  and  the 
single  bed  with  his  wife,  on  condition  that  he  se 
cured  a  job.  He  went  back  to  baking. 

A  curious  time  followed.  The  little  fellow 
came  home  between  three  and  four  in  the  morning, 
white  with  flour,  tramped  through  the  house, 
dragged  Lizzie  out  of  her  sleep  and  out  of  the 


228  PAY  ENVELOPES 

bed,  tumbled  in  himself,  and  drank  beer  and 
smoked  a  corncob  pipe  that  filled  the  house 
with  its  reek.  Then  he  slept  all  day,  while  she 
labored. 

Lizzie  was  a  different  woman.  Her  straight 
back  began  to  curve;  her  face  was  pale;  her  eyes 
began  to  gather  lines.  She  did  not  sing  any  more. 
She  did  not  glory  in  her  toil.  She  had  to  keep 
pulling  herself  together  to  get  through  the  day's 
work.  And  the  fear  and  love  of  Michael  were 
upon  her.  A  mad  impulse  had  destroyed  her  bet 
ter  life.  The  undertow  now  had  her. 

Then,  after  three  months,  she  and  Max  took  the 
two  rear  rooms  on  lower  Avenue  A  above  the  sa 
loon.  They  ran  a  lodging  house  for  men.  The 
rear  room  was  used  for  kitchen,  dining-room,  and 
also  as  the  bedroom  of  the  baker  and  herself.  The 
inner  room,  with  its  four  double  beds,  housed 
five  bakers  by  day,  nine  laborers  by  night.  Each 
shift  found  that  the  other  had  left  the  beds  warm. 

It  was  a  queer,  but  not  unusual,  household. 
The  Tenement  House  Department  had  done  noth 
ing  to  disturb  it.  The  fourteen  men  paid  seven 
ty-five  cents  a  week  for  lodging,  bringing  in  ten- 
fifty  together.  The  cost  of  the  food  was  divided 
equally  between  all,  and  was  as  much  as  a  dollar 
and  a  half  a  week  for  each.  Lizzie  had  to  run 
the  place  without  help  —  market,  cook,  clean,  and 
wash  the  men's  clothes.  It  was  hard  work,  but  it 
paid,  and  all  would  have  gone  well  —  she  would 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN  229 

have  saved  a  large  sum  in  two  years  —  had  it  not 
been  for  the  baker. 

To  him  life  showered  out  her  golden  plenty. 
He  felt  that  he  was  a  retired  man.  Fortune  had 
provided  him  with  a  money-making  woman  and 
fourteen  comrades  of  his  own  country.  Why 
work?  He  lay  abed  smoking  his  pipe  and  sip 
ping  beer;  he  haunted  the  saloon  below;  he  gath 
ered  his  comrades  together  and  gambled  the  nights 
away;  and  he  most  plenteously  beat  "  his  woman." 
He  used  her  for  his  animal  desires,  his  tool,  his 
lackey,  his  money-maker.  Like  the  rest  of  her 
kind,  she  gradually  accepted  the  situation  and 
ground  out  her  heart  and  soul  and  strength  in  the 
daily  mill. 

But  life  began  to  darken  over  her  in  a  more  sin 
ister  way.  Twice  a  little  child  was  coming,  and 
where  was  there  room  for  a  child,  and  how  could 
a  slaving  woman  pause  long  enough  for  its  birth 
and  up-bringing?  So  she  got  rid  of  the  new  life 
that  was  striving  to  emerge  into  the  world.  And 
thus  she  became  a  broken  woman  —  broken  phys 
ically  and  morally.  She  now  was  badly  bent,  and 
looked  old.  She  had  a  searching  back-ache  while 
she  worked.  She  was  often  dizzy  and  nauseous. 
But  what  was  that  to  the  collapse  of  her  spirit  — 
the  sense  of  sin,  the  thwarted  motherhood?  Her 
"  man  "  hated  children;  she  loved  them.  Her 
heart  was  as  hungry  for  little  lips  and  little  fin 
gers  and  feet  as  that  of  any  normal  woman.  And 


230  PAY  ENVELOPES 

she  knew  that  Michael  Hudak  loved  children  as 
she  did. 

Six  months  before  this  night  of  spring  she  had 
received  a  note  from  Michael.  It  was  short  and 
written  in  a  painful  abortive  scrawl: 

"  I'm  coming  and  get  you  yet. 

MICHAEL." 

Those  words  started  a  rebellion  in  her  heart 
that  might  still  have  made  something  of  a  woman 
of  her.  Three  days  before  she  wrote  her  first 
note  to  Michael. 

"  Come  and  see  me  Friday  morning.     He  is  going 
to  a  chowder. 

LIZZIE." 

The  three  days  seemed  interminable.  She  had 
a  new  sense  of  freedom.  She  felt  as  if  already 
she  had  cut  loose  from  Max.  His  orders,  his 
slovenliness,  his  foul-mouthedness,  therefore,  came 
as  if  from  a  stranger  and  were  not  to  be  borne. 
And  so  she  had  broken  out  at  last  and  beat  with 
her  fists  that  hated  head,  that  loathed  body.  The 
miserable  little  drunkard;  the  dog  of  a  wife-beater; 
the  woman-protected  animal! 

And  now  it  was  early  Friday  morning  and  free 
dom  was  near.  She  looked  up.  The  dawn  glim 
mered  on  the  roofs  —  all  things  were  softening 
into  gray  —  the  house  was  hushed.  She  took  a 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN  231 

deep  breath  of  the  blowing  air;  she  remembered 
suddenly  the  prayers  she  had  ceased  saying  three 
years  ago.  God  was  alive  again;  he  had  long 
been  dead. 

And  then  in  the  unusual  throbbing  of  the  cool 
air  the  little  man  awoke,  cramped  and  cold. 
Stretching  himself,  he  turned.  Then  he  sat  bolt 
upright. 

"  Lizzie,"  he  rumbled,  "  what  you  doing?  " 

She  looked  at  him  and  spoke  very  quietly. 

"  I'm  going  to  leave  you,  Max." 

He  looked  at  her  stupidly. 

"What?" 

"  I'm  going  to  leave  you,  Max." 

He  stared  hard  at  her.  Slowly  the  words  meant 
something  to  him. 

"So!" 

He  managed  to  get  to  his  feet  and  stagger  over 
to  her.  She  rose  in  self-defense. 

He  laughed  an  ugly  laugh,  and  she  shrank  from 
him,  but  his  hands  closed  over  her  arms. 

"  Say  that  again  !  " 

He  breathed  on  her. 

'*  You  let  me  alone,"  she  cried  sharply. 

"Whose  woman  are  you?"  he  growled; 
"  whose  woman?  " 

He  suddenly  withdrew  his  fist  to  strike  her  in 
the  face,  but  to  his  astonishment  she  struggled  with 
him  and  heavily  flung  him  off,  so  that  he  went  reel 
ing.  Growling,  amazed,  stupid,  he  began  to 


232  PAY  ENVELOPES 

lurch  up  and  down  the  room,  and  Lizzie  watched 
him,  leaning  against  the  wall,  her  fists  clenched, 
her  eyes  flashing  hate  and  defiance.  She  was  dar 
ing  him  to  do  his  worst. 

He  stopped  at  the  cupboard,  turned,  smote  the 
extension  of  it  with  his  knucklesr  and  muttered: 

"  It's  Michael  now  —  it's  Michael,  and  I  know 
it!" 

Lizzie  spoke  breathlessly: 

"  He'll  kill  you  yet!" 

The  little  baker  opened  the  cupboard  and  drew 
out  a  carving-knife.  He  gripped  it,  and,  with  hor 
rible  curses,  came  to  her. 

"  Kill  me,  eh?     Kill  me,  you  —  !" 

She  saw  the  long  blade  flashing,  and  a  sick  ter 
ror  went  blinding  through  her.  Then  she  raised 
her  voice  to  a  shriek  that  went  through  the  quiet 
tenements  —  that  night-shriek  so  well  known 
among  the  miserable  women  —  and  wildly,  in  a 
screaming  panic,  fled  tortuously  through  the 
crowded  room.  He  pressed  her  close.  Chairs 
went  over;  the  kettle  slammed  off  the  stove;  and 
the  shrieking  went  on. 

And  then  suddenly  it  was  all  over.  He  had 
cornered  her. 

"  Kill  me,  eh?     Take  that,  you  —  !  " 

The  men  came  tumbling  in  in  their  night-clothes, 
white,  frightened,  in  panic.  Their  faces  crowded 
close;  they  bore  down  on  Max;  they  took  the 
knife  away;  they  hurried  him  downstairs  lest  the 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN  233 

police  come  in  and  find  him.  And  Lizzie  was 
left  alone,  crouching  in  a  corner,  panting,  sharp 
smothering  sobs  breaking  from  her  at  intervals. 
She  felt  as  if  she  were  burning  in  an  intolerable 
furnace. 

She  waited,  trembling,  for  Max  to  come  back. 
He  did  not  come,  but  instead,  the  men  returned, 
and  without  glancing  at  her  trooped  into  their 
room  to  dress.  The  day-shift,  flushed  with  the 
exciting  news,  soon  appeared  and  joined  them, 
and  Lizzie  could  hear  them  whispering  together. 
Their  words  roused  her,  and  she  began  to  move 
about  in  a  quiet  trance  preparing  breakfast.  The 
coffee  steamed  up ;  the  herring  crackled  in  the  fry 
ing  fat.  One  by  one^  and  in  silence,  the  men  came 
to  the  table. 

And  then,  when  at  last  they  were  gone  and  the 
five  of  the  day-shift  were  in  bed  in  the  inner  room, 
quietly  and  with  unnecessary  exactness  she  straight 
ened  up  the  room,  washed  the  dishes,  mopped  the 
floor.  Her  heart  beat  heavily,  though  now  it 
seemed  numb  and  incapable  of  passion.  She  felt 
as  if  something  had  gone  dead  within  her. 

She  was  making  a  wide  arc  with  her  rag  on  the 
floor,  swinging  her  body  rhythmically  with  it, 
when,  suddenly,  with  a  dry  little  sob,  she  flung  the 
rag  in  the  corner,  arose,  and  went  to  the  window. 
She  looked  out  at  the  empty  washlines  that  crossed 
and  recrossed  each  other;  she  saw  the  many  open 
windows  opposite;  the  fire-escapes;  the  little  ba- 


234  PAY  ENVELOPES 

bies  crawling  about;  the  fat  women  moving  from 
window  to  window  inside;  the  few  red  geraniums; 
the  little  glass  aquarium  of  the  cripple  boy  —  the 
street's  busy,  near,  yet  far-off  life.  The  smells  of 
many  breakfasts  filled  the  sweet  spring  air.  And 
then,  without  bitterness,  she  wondered  if  this,  after 
all,  is  what  life  really  is,  or  could  it  possibly  be 
something  other  —  something  as  in  her  early 
youth  when  she  sang  folk-songs  and  took  the  wind 
and  the  sun  and  the  good  smell  of  earth  into  her 
soul?  She  was  a  woman,  and  because  of  her  sex 
she  now  found  herself  a  broken  instrument  in  a 
man's  hands.  She  had  heard  of  enough  cases  of 
men  getting  after  their  women  with  knives  —  the 
newspapers  were  full  of  it  —  and  there  were  mur 
ders  enough  by  jealous  lovers.  Jealous  lovers ! 
She  half-closed  her  eyes!  Max,  a  lover!  He 
had  never  loved  her,  nor  she  him.  Why 
shouldn't  she  leave  him?  Why  not?  What 
claim  had  he  upon  her  ?  Who  had  done  the  work  ? 
Who  had  earned  the  money?  Gradually  her 
blood  stirred  again.  She  hated  the  thought  of 
him :  she  hated  his  face,  his  little  body,  his  breath, 
his  way  of  speaking,  his  gestures.  She  filled  with 
a  hate  that  crazed  her  again. 

The  passion  of  hate  woke  the  passion  of  love 
in  her  heart.  Just  as  much  as  she  hated  Max,  she 
loved  Michael.  She  contrasted  their  bodies:  the 
one  frail,  weak;  the  other  mighty  with  its  mascu 
linity;  she  compared  their  faces,  their  manners, 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN          235 

their  way  of  speaking.     As  if  Michael  were  be 
fore  her,  she  whispered  hoarsely :  "  You  are  a  man 

—  a    man! "     She    knew   he    was    coming.     He 
could  not  fail  her.     He  would  come  and  carry  her 
off;  she  would  go  with  him.     She  had  suffered 
enough;  she  had  been  punished  hard  enough  for 
her  sin  against  love;  fiercely  she  swore  to  herself 
that  she  had  a  right  to  some  human  happiness  now 

—  some  life,  some  love.     Michael  was  coming; 
he  would  make  everything  straight  again. 

She  turned,  a  bit  wild  in  her  new  glory. 

"  Michael,  you're  a  man,"  she  whispered  again. 
And  then  swiftly  she  opened  the  lower  part  of  the 
cupboard,  and  from  a  large  bundle  of  old  clothes 
drew  out  an  old  skirt,  a  flimsy  cotton  shawl,  a  pair 
of  torn  shoes,  some  underwear,  and  bound  them 
together  in  a  newspaper. 

Even  then  there  was  the  double  rap  on  the  door 
she  knew  of  old.  The  blood  went  and  came  to 
her  cheeks,  her  heart  pounded  as  if  it  would  leap 
into  her  throat,  and  slowly,  hand  on  the  ledge  of 
the  cupboard,  she  pulled  herself  up,  and  with  legs 
almost  failing  her  crept  to  the  door  and  flung  it 
open.  She  stood  back  in  silence  and  he  walked 
slowly  in,  glancing  about  him  carefully  and  sus 
piciously,  and  listening  a  moment  at  the  open  door 
of  the  inner  room.  Then  satisfied,  he  turned;  she 
closed  the  door  softly,  and  they  confronted  each 
other.  How  little  he  had  changed !  Yes,  yes,  he 
was  the  same  mighty  growth  of  man  —  just  as  big, 


23 6  PAY  ENVELOPES 

black,  muscular  as  ever,  the  big  human  lips  firm 
and  shut  as  ever.  This  was  Michael  —  her  Mi 
chael.  She  waited  his  glad,  hoarse  cry,  but  in 
stead,  he  gazed  at  her  in  strange  silence;  he  kept 
swallowing  something  in  his  throat;  and  then 
slowly  his  hands  at  his  sides  turned  in  on  them 
selves,  the  fingers  rubbing  the  palms.  She  knew 
that  sign  so  well :  he  was  fully  aroused. 

Her  cheeks  flushed  painfully ;  and  she  gave  a  low 
cry,  hand  on  her  heart: 

"  Michael !" 

But  he  said  nothing.  She  came  a  little  near 
er. 

"  Michael !  " 

And  then  the  words  came,  slow  and  choked: 

"  So  —  that's  what  you  done  to  yourself !  " 

She  stood  a  moment  unable  to  move.  Then  she 
whispered: 

"  Have  you  come  for  me?  " 

He  took  a  step  and  his  mighty  hand  seized 
her  wrist  and  held  and  hurt  her.  He  leaned 
close :  he  spoke  with  rude  elemental  passion  —  his 
whole  man-nature  speaking  through  him: 

"  Lizzie  —  you  were  my  woman"  He  came 
still  nearer.  "  You  were  my  woman.  I  had  to 
have  you.  Why  did  you  go?" 

He  could  have  had  her  then.  She  drooped  to 
ward  him,  all  the  sweet  and  womanly  love  buried 
in  her,  now  sweeping  her  like  fire.  She  half- 
sobbed.  Something  broke  open  in  her  heart. 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN  237 

This,  after  the  long  months,  was  so  sweet,  so  hu 
man,  so  man-and-womanly ! 

"  Oh,  Michael !  "  she  whispered  hoarsely;  "  Mi 
chael,  I  didn't  mean  it  —  I  was  jealous  —  I  was  a 
fool,  I  was  a  fool!  " 

His  face  was  close  to  hers. 

"  And  you  married  Max." 

She  spoke  passionately : 

"  I  didn't  marry  him.     I  ran  off  with  him !  " 

He  drew  back  sharply,  loosing  her  hand. 

"So  — that's  it!" 

He  started  slowly  for  the  door.  She  turned 
and  seized  his  sleeve,  in  a  last  wild  despair. 

"  Michael  —  I  wouldn't  marry  anyone  but 
you !  " 

He  looked  at  her  harshly. 

"  You're  not  the  same  girl  you  was  three  years 
ago,"  he  said.  "  I  made  a  mistake." 

What  could  she  say  to  that?  Her  face  became 
haggard  and  hard,  and  involuntarily  she  remem 
bered  the  unborn  children  and  her  broken  body 
and  ugliness.  She  withdrew  her  hand  and  nod 
ded  slowly.  He  went  out  and  closed  the  door. 

She  stood  now,  perfectly  still,  very  calm  again, 
her  brain  working  in  quick  flashes.  She  could 
kill  herself;  she  could  leave  the  city;  she  could 
borrow  some  money  and  go  back  to  Europe. 
Anything  —  but  not  stay  in  her  home.  Yes  — 
she  knew  what  she  would  do;  she  would  go  back 
to  Sixty-fifth  Street.  She  waited  until  she  knew 


23  8  PAY  ENVELOPES 

Michael  was  out  of  sight.  Then  she  took  her 
newspaper-bundle,  and  went  silently  down  the 
stairs.  At  the  door  she  darted  out  quickly,  run 
ning  half  down  the  block.  But  no  one  followed 
her. 

She  walked  East  mechanically  until  she  came 
to  the  river  and  began  to  pace  uptown  alongside 
saloons,  factories,  warehouses  and  the  great  red 
gas-tanks.  Without  giving  herself  any  reason, 
she  dropped  the  Sixty-fifth  Street  plan.  Once  or 
twice  she  crossed  the  muddy  street  to  the  end  of 
a  wharf  and  looked  absently  at  the  water.  Then, 
at  last,  she  came  to  a  ferry,  and  a  block  beyond 
it  a  recreation  pier.  She  entered  this  and  sat 
down.  There  were  a  few  mothers  there  with 
their  babies.  Lizzie  watched  them  a  while,  put 
her  bundle  under  her  head  and  went  to  sleep.  All 
day  long,  in  a  far  corner,  the  tired,  worn,  shattered 
woman  slept,  and  not  until  twilight  did  she  awake, 
her  heart  now  fresh  with  new  grief,  new  misery, 
new  hopelessness.  Now  at  last  she  could  feel 
what  the  early  morning  had  done  to  her.  The 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  Life  was  cruel,  and 
it  didn't  pay  to  be  a  woman. 

A  perfect  spring  night  came  on,  the  heavens 
were  starry,  the  air  cool  and  sweet,  the  salt  of  the 
river  blew  with  slight  gusts  of  wind,  and  Lizzie 
went  down  in  the  street.  She  was  hungry;  she 
had  nowhere  to  lay  her  head;  she  was  out  in  the 
strange  and  desert  world ;  all  things  were  lost. 


THE  BROKEN  WOMAN  239 

And  then  came  the  inevitable  change  of  heart. 
It  is  one  of  the  commonest  experiences  of  the  wives 
of  the  poor.  There  is  no  logic  in  it;  there  is  no 
reason.  Max  was  a  lazy  brute,  a  wife-beater  and 
a  drunkard.  Yet  he  was,  after  all,  a  man,  a  male 
human.  With  him  she  had  lived,  for  him  she  had 
become  a  broken  woman.  She  knew  his  ways 
pretty  well  and  there  were  times  too  when  they  had 
gotten  along  in  a  happy-go-lucky  way.  And  now 
the  very  pangs  began  to  call  her  back.  The  old 
familiarity,  the  scene  so  well  known,  the  faces  so 
long  harbored  (she  knew  every  expression  on 
them!),  the  routine  of  the  day's  work,  the  very 
flavor  of  the  night  —  its  smoke,  chip-clatter,  noise, 
the  street,  the  people  she  saw  daily,  the  blazing 
rollicking  saloon  —  all  were  so  many  lovers  call 
ing  her  back  to  her  life  of  pain.  They  called  her 
to  come  back  and  suffer.  And  then  she  thought  of 
the  unborn.  Unliving,  unreal  as  they  were,  yet 
they  were  a  blood-tie. 

Truly  she  was  a  broken  woman,  but  being  such 
— •  her  independence,  her  womanliness  sapped  dry 
— '  she  crept  back  in  the  night,  she  slunk  into  the 
reeking  hallway,  the  roaring  tenement,  she  climbed 
the  three  flights,  she  softly  pushed  into  the  rear 
room. 

Five  sat  again  at  the  table.  The  gas-flame 
beamed  dazzlingly  through  the  fog  of  smoke. 
Chips  clattered,  there  were  roars  of  laughter,  there 
was  the  flash  of  profane  words.  Her  heart 


240  PAY  ENVELOPES 

warmed  strangely  as  she  entered.  All  looked  up. 
Max  smiled  on  his  nearest  neighbor. 

She  came  in  guiltily  —  subdued,  thoroughly  bro 
ken  in  for  life.  She  murmured: 

"I'm  here,  Max!" 

He  motioned  her  over  to  his  side.  She  came. 
He  nodded  toward  the  empty  can. 

"  Go  and  fetch  a  pint  of  beer,"  said  the  little 
baker. 


STINY  BOLINSKY 


STINY  BOLINSKY 

gTINY  BOLINSKY'S  mother  woke  him  up 
^  just  as  dawn  crept  through  the  window. 

"  Your  father  is  eating  breakfast,"  the  mother 
muttered  in  his  ear. 

"  The  whistle,"  cried  Stiny,  half  awake,  "  did  it 
blow?" 

"  It  will  blow  soon  enough,"  sighed  the  mother. 

Stiny  sat  up,  and  looked  stupidly  about  the  little 
room.  A  baby  was  sleeping  in  a  crib  in  the  cor 
ner,  and  two  men,  lodgers,  were  getting  out  of  the 
double  bed.  Stiny  slept  on  a  cot. 

The  men  were  grumbling  sleepily.  As  they 
slipped  into  trousers  and  shirts  their  bare  flesh 
showed  oily  and  black.  Their  faces  too  were 
dusty  with  coal.  Their  shocks  of  hair  looked  as 
if  they  had  been  dipped  into  a  coal-bin,  but  their 
eyes,  though  sleepy,  were  rather  sharp  and  pierc 
ing. 

Stiny  put  on  heavy  lumbering  shoes,  a  coarse 
dirty  undershirt,  greasy  overalls  that  strapped  over 
his  shoulders.  Then  slowly  he  opened  a  door  into 
the  hall,  crept  downstairs,  left  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  hurried  over  the  bare  rough  ground. 
He  passed  half  a  dozen  gray  houses,  and  came  to 

243 


244  PAY  ENVELOPES 

a  little  pump.  A  dozen  men,  clad  as  he  was  clad, 
were  fighting  to  get  at  the  water.  This  pump  was 
used  by  forty  families,  and  it  was  first  come,  first 
served.  Stiny  hung  about  a  little  while,  and  finally 
decided  to  go  unwashed. 

As  he  walked  back  to  the  house  he  looked  about 
him.  There  were  two  rows  of  houses  —  gray 
boxes,  two  stories  high  and  all  alike  —  a  muddy 
gutter  between  them.  There  were  no  gardens,  no 
trees,  save  a  few  stunted  leafless  ones.  Back  of 
the  houses  was  a  hill,  with  piles  of  dirt  and  siftings 
of  fine  coal,  and  along  this  hill  ran  a  railroad  track 
and  back  of  it  rose  abruptly  a  mountain,  bare  and 
desolate.  Its  lower  part  was  all  blasted  away,  and 
before  it  stood  gray  shacks  with  high  iron  chim 
neys. 

The  mountainside  and  valley  lay  in  a  deep 
gloonij  but  softly  in  the  upper  air  a  tremulous  light 
was  broadening  over  the  world,  and  with  the  light 
came  a  sweet  wind.  Suddenly  Stiny  had  a  restless 
feeling,  a  touch  of  fever,  a  desire  to  go  wandering 
away,  a  desire  for  things  he  could  not  imagine 
clearly,  but  things  beautiful,  inaccessible.  He 
wished  it  was  Sunday,  that  he  might  go  to  the  lit 
tle  church  at  the  end  of  the  street  and  watch  his 
teacher's  face,  and  see  the  mystery  of  a  woman  un 
like  other  women.  That  woman  was  Miss  Danby, 
the  Sunday-school  teacher.  She  was  stout,  forty, 
bustling,  cheerful.  She  said,  "  my  boys,"  and  said 
it  proudly.  "  My  boys "  were  men  anywhere 


STINY  BOLINSKY  245 

from  fifteen  to  fifty.  They  rarely  understood 
what  Miss  Danby  was  driving  at,  and  possibly 
Miss  Danby  didn't  understand  either,  but  it  was 
nice  to  come  in  contact  with  such  robust  cheerful 
ness. 

Stiny  suddenly  felt  over  his  shirt,  looked  a  lit 
tle  startled,  and  ran  into  the  house.  He  hurried 
back  to  his  room,  felt  under  his  pillow  and 
brought  out  two  little  badges,  which  he  pinned 
carefully  to  his  dirty  shirt.  One  of  these  was  the 
picture  of  a  man,  and  under  the  picture  were  the 
words,  "John  Mitchell,  Labor's  Friend."  The 
other  was  a  cross,  on  the  face  of  which  was 
stamped,  u  Thy  Kingdom  Come." 

Then  Stiny  went  into  the  adjoining  room.  A 
stove  steamed  against  a  wall,  and  next  to  it  was  a 
table  covered  with  oilcloth.  At  this  table  sat  the 
two  lodgers,  Stiny's  father  and  Stiny's  big  brother. 
The  mother  went  to  and  fro  serving  the  men. 
Stiny  sat  down.  No  one  spoke,  but  there  was  the 
loud  noise  of  slapping  tongues  and  smacking  lips. 
One  could  hear  every  swallow  of  the  coffee  as  it 
went  down  the  husky  throats.  On  a  tin  plate  were 
heaped  huge  chunks  of  bread.  On  another  were 
some  fried  herrings.  The  men  plunged  their 
forks  into  these  plates  and  took  as  much  as  they 
could.  Stiny  was  hungry  and  ate  as  ravenously  as 
the  rest,  making  just  as  much  noise. 

The  light  grew  and  grew  in  the  room,  glimmer 
ing  through  the  two  dirty  windows;  the  men  ate; 


246  PAY  ENVELOPES 

the  woman  moved  about  swiftly.  Then,  without 
warning,  there  arose  in  the  air  the  long  insistent 
shrilling  of  the  whistle  —  an  endless  piercing  blast 
shrieking  through  the  valley. 

Everybody  cried,  "  The  whistle !  " 

One  last  bite,  one  last  swallow  of  coffee  to  wash 
it  down,  and  they  got  their  caps  with  the  little  tin 
torches,  and  rushed  pell-mell  into  the  hall,  down 
the  stairs  and  into  the  street.  From  one  end  to 
the  other  the  street  was  filled  with  hurrying  men 
and  boys.  The  men  carried  dinner-pails.  All 
seemed  in  a  terrific  hurry.  At  the  end  of  the 
street  they  turned  up  a  well-beaten  path  over  the 
railroad  tracks,  and  past  the  shacks.  Stiny  hur 
ried  to  a  big  hole  that  was  like  a  wide-open  mouth 
in  the  side  of  the  mountain.  About  this  mouth 
were  heaps  of  fine  coal  siftings.  The  ground  was 
black.  Little  narrow  tracks  ran  into  this  mouth 
and  disappeared  in  the  darkness.  On  the  track 
stood  a  little  flat  car,  with  a  trolley  pole  resting 
up  against  a  low  wire  that  also  ran  into  the  black 
mouth. 

Stiny  and  half  a  dozen  others,  after  lighting  the 
torches  on  their  caps,  piled  upon  this  flat-car,  but 
even  at  that  moment  the  restlessness  seized  him 
again.  The  sun  was  rising  over  the  mountain ;  a 
wild  radiance  swept  over  the  valley;  a  delicious 
breeze  burst  upon  the  world.  Stiny  had  a  strong, 
almost  irresistible  desire  not  to  go  into  the  black 
mouth.  He  wanted  to  wander  in  search  of  things 


STINY  BOLINSKY  247 

inaccessible  —  things  beautiful.  There  was  some 
thing  in  the  air  that  tempted  him  forth;  it  was  a 
voice  hinting  of  glories  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain.  Stiny  did  not  know  what  troubled  him. 
He  did  not  know  that  this  was  the  first  day  of 
spring  —  that  buds  ached  to  be  blossoms;  that 
grass  yearned  for  the  sun ;  that  birds  were  dream 
ing  of  nests  and  nestlings ;  that  human  beings  were 
beginning  to  hunt  for  one  another;  that  in  men 
and  women  leaped  the  impulse  of  love. 

The  motorman  turned  the  little  handle  and  the 
car  shot  straight  into  the  mouth.  The  car  was  not 
afraid  of  that  blackness;  it  rushed  through  it, 
deeper  and  deeper  and  deeper,  now  plunging 
around  a  curve,  now  running  up  an  incline,  now 
dashing  down  a  slant.  All  the  men  on  the  cars 
crouched  low,  for  there  were  dangerous  places  — 
a  head  lifted  might  strike  the  live  trolley 
wire  above.  Several  men  had  been  killed  that 
way. 

The  Monster,  the  mine,  through  its  mouth  had 
devoured  these  human  beings,  and  now  the  car 
shot  through  the  mighty  belly  of  the  brute.  It 
passed  the  dark  corner  where  a  month  before  there 
had  been  an  explosion  —  foreman  and  three  others 
blown  to  pieces,  cause  unknown.  The  men  on  the 
flat-car  did  not  even  remember  the  incident. 

Finally  the  car  stopped  and  Stiny  got  off. 
There  was  a  big  canvas  padded  door  here.  Stiny 
opened  it.  The  car  rushed  on.  Then  Stiny  shut 


248  PAY  ENVELOPES 

the  door  again,  and  sat  down  on  a  broken  wooden 
box.  He  was  alone.  There  was  absolute  silence. 
The  day's  work  had  begun. 

The  tunnel  is  divided  into  locks,  compartments 
with  a  door  at  each  end,  to  keep  the  gases  of  one 
compartment  from  permeating  all,  should  there  be 
an  accident.  It  was  Stiny's  job  to  sit  at  one  of 
these  doors  all  day.  Whenever  he  saw  the  blind 
ing  flash  of  the  car  coming  his  way  he  opened  the 
door. 

He  sat  down  listlessly.  The  little  smoking, 
flaming  torch  in  his  hat  cast  strange  large  shadows 
about  the  corner,  showing  the  black  jutting  rocks, 
the  bits  of  coal,  the  tracks  shining  for  a  little  dis 
tance  and  then  swallowed  in  blackness,  and,  lastly, 
the  boy's  face.  Stiny's  face  was  unlit  —  the  fea 
tures  large  and  smooth,  the  eyes  small  and  sleepy, 
the  lips  big.  He  had  some  sandy  hair  on  top  of 
his  head,  but  its  color  was  blurred  by  the  coal  dust. 
He  was  a  dust-dipped  boy,  head  to  foot;  sooty, 
black,  disreputable. 

This  had  been  Stiny's  job  for  three  years.  He 
began  when  he  was  twelve.  He  had  a  dim  recol 
lection  of  the  days  when  he  played  around  the 
mouth  of  the  mine  with  other  boys,  when  he  was 
free  to  roam  up  the  mountainside.  His  chief  de 
sire  in  those  days  was  to  be  a  man  and  work  in 
the  mine  like  his  father.  What  else  could  a  boy 
desire?  There  was  nothing  in  his  world  but  a 
bare  and  desolate  and  smoke-darkened  valley,  a 


STINY  BOLINSKY  249 

few  stupid  companions,  a  home  to  be  avoided  be 
cause  of  the  troubles  there. 

The  mother  was  a  hard-working  woman  with 
small  time  for  her  children.  There  was  a  saloon 
down  the  street,  not  very  far  from  the  church,  but 
the  boys  were  too  young  for  that.  There  was  a 
school,  also,  to  which  now  and  then  the  boys  were 
driven,  but  the  teacher,  a  woman  who  stayed  on 
because  she  was  alone  and  had  to  earn  a  living, 
detested  and  looked  down  upon  the  miners'  chil 
dren.  There  was  also  the  church  —  but  until  this 
year  there  had  been  no  Miss  Danby. 

And  the  mine !  In  that  narrow  world  of  child 
hood  this  was  the  only  outlet.  It  was  deep,  mys 
terious,  terrible.  Its  perils  made  it  fascinating. 
How  they  crowded  about  when  a  dead  man  was 
brought  up !  What  fun  on  days  of  big  cave-ins, 
when  the  frantic  village  mobbed  the  entrances, 
women  wailing,  men  sweating  and  laboring  like 
very  demons  to  save  their  brothers!  And  there 
was  a  charm  deeper  than  the  perils,  the  coal-damp, 
the  cave-in,  the  explosion  —  the  great  Monster 
fed  its  victims.  Their  very  existence  depended 
upon  it.  Bread,  shelter,  life  —  these  were  the 
gifts  of  the  mine  —  and  in  this  little  world,  only 
the  mine  had  these  gifts  to  give.  To  be  a  man 
was  to  enter  the  Monster,  share  the  dangers,  do 
the  day's  work  and  get  the  pay  envelope  on  Satur 
day. 

Stiny  started  when  he  was  twelve.     He  had  a 


250  PAY  ENVELOPES 

dim,  a  very  dim  remembrance  of  former  days. 
Life  did  not  begin  until  he  was  given  his  post  at 
the  door.  Then  life  began,  and  a  strange  life ! 
Most  of  the  days  he  was  pulled  out  of  his  sleep 
for  a  bite,  a  rush  through  the  dark  valley,  a  long 
day  in  darkness,  a  release  into  the  night  when  the 
day's  work  was  done,  and  then  sleep  again.  But 
on  Saturdays  it  was  different.  Then  he  trooped 
with  the  crowd  down  to  the  saloon,  became  very- 
drunk,  managed  to  get  home  somehow,  and  slept 
away  the  better  part  of  the  Sunday.  It  was  only 
lately  that  he  got  up  early  enough  to  listen  to  Miss 
Danby. 

So  far  as  Stiny  knew,  such  is  life.  To  sleep, 
to  eat,  to  work  in  darkness,  and  then  to  sleep 
again.  He  never  wondered  why  the  mine  was 
there,  or  what  became  of  the  coal  that  was  vomited 
forth  daily  and  carried  from  the  valley  in  the 
long  coal-cars.  He  knew  that  the  mine  was  there, 
that  the  coal  had  to  be  gotten  out,  that  men  were 
paid  to  get  it  out  —  that  was  all.  He  took  the 
fact  of  the  mine  as  he  took  the  fact  of  the  seasons 
—  he  never  dreamed  of  the  powers  that  ruled. 
Once  in  a  while  an  inspector  or  a  visitor  came 
through.  If  he  was  an  ordinary  person  the  miners 
roughly  jested  as  he  bumped  his  head  against  the 
low  ceilings;  "  bumped  it  into  a  running  sore,"  as 
they  said.  As  for  Stiny,  these  were  people 
dropped  from  another  world.  They  came  and 


STINY  BOLINSKY  251 

vanished,  mere  comets.  They  did  not  belong  to 
life. 

Men  are  born;  they  labor;  they  marry;  they  die. 
That  was  all  there  was  to  it.  Stiny  had  stupidly 
accepted  his  lot  in  life;  he,  too,  would  make  the 
rounds  with  the  others.  When  the  time  came  he 
would  marry;  later  he  would  die. 

But  with  Miss  Danby's  coming,  a  dim  struggle 
began  in  the  boy's  breast.  He  did  not  know  what 
she  was  driving  at  with  her  stories  about  a  certain 
Moses,  and  David  and  Goliath  (which  latter, 
however,  he  liked,  because  there  was  a  fight),  but 
he  began  to  get  the  first  dull  glimmerings  of  a  far 
world  —  a  world  different  from  his  own  —  where 
a  woman's  voice  was  kind;  where  there  was  a 
smile,  a  touch  now  and  then.  In  his  own  world 
were  much  coarseness,  obscurity,  loneliness;  there 
were  harsh  words,  fights,  hatred,  and  a  bitter  at 
mosphere  —  an  atmosphere  that  a  few  years  be 
fore  had  burst  forth  in  the  big  strike.  The  older 
men  knew  all  about  that  big  strike;  Stiny  only 
knew  that  a  great  man  by  the  name  of  John 
Mitchell  had  come  along  and  told  the  men  to  get 
together.  So  the  men  got  together,  and  after  that 
things  were  a  little  better.  Miss  Danby  once  in 
a  while  talked  by  the  hour  about  John  Mitchell,  but 
she  never  made  things  clear.  In  fact,  she  was 
nearly  as  ignorant  as  Stiny. 

Stiny  was  as  uncouth  and  as  thick-crusted  as  any 


252  PAY  ENVELOPES 

of  the  others.  Long  hours  in  bad  air  and  dark 
ness,  broken  sleep,  coarse  food,  drunken  Saturday 
nights,  blows  and  impatient  words  are  not  condu 
cive  to  fineness  of  spirit  or  heart.  But  now  was 
the  new  fact  of  Miss  Danby  —  a  human  being  who 
went  against  the  whole  world,  who  turned  things 
upside  down,  who,  in  a  bustling  manner,  was  gen 
tle,  roughly  sweet,  smiling,  sympathetic.  Every 
Sunday  he  marveled  at  her,  and  through  the  long 
days  he  brooded  upon  her.  She  had  pinned  the 
badges  upon  him  with  her  own  hands.  That  made 
them  sacred.  He  considered  them  above  all  the 
things  of  life.  And  with  his  brooding,  something 
strange  occurred.  Something  in  him  began  to1 
break  down ;  about  the  region  of  his  heart  strange 
passions  awoke  and  fought  with  him;  a  radiance 
beat  against  his  thick  crust,  and  here  and  there 
made  a  loophole,  so  that  at  times  he  felt  as  if  he 
were  going  to  cry  as  his  mother  cried  when  he 
came  home  drunk.  At  other  times  he  felt  a  black 
revolt  boiling  within  him  —  revolt  against  harsh 
ness,  darkness,  dreariness  —  rebellion  against  his 
narrow  world.  There  must  be  something  better 
somewhere;  there  must  be  joy,  there  must  be  love, 
there  must  be  comfort. 

Stiny  was  becoming  a  dangerous  boy.  No  one 
knew  it,  leastwise  himself.  What  Miss  Danby 
gave  him  was  a  lot  of  vague  new  impulses  —  pas 
sions  that  craved  an  outlet,  but  though  the  heart 
felt,  the  poor  brain  could  not  see.  The  boy  was 


STINY  BOLINSKY  253 

groping  about  in  blackness;  his  heart  cried  for  a 
revolution,  but  his  mind  did  not  know  what  revolu 
tion,  or  how,  or  when.  He  wanted  something;  he 
wanted  it  badly;  but  he  did  not  know  what  he 
wanted.  It  began  to  be  impossible  to  sit  around 
all  day  with  such  passions  in  his  breast.  He  could 
only  clutch  his  two  badges  and  swear  that  things 
must  change.  And  thus  he  became  like  an  active 
volcano  whose  crater  is  about  to  blow  off.  Im 
pulse  might  have  led  to  anything  —  a  quarrel  and 
a  killing  in  the  saloon,  a  hasty  marriage,  or  a  sud 
den  slipping  away  to  wander  over  to  the  other 
side  of  the  mountain. 

To-day  his  troubles  were  at  their  height,  for  it 
was  the  first  day  of  spring,  and  into  the  mouth  of 
the  Monster  the  boy  had  carried  the  yearning  of 
the  whole  world.  He  sat  at  the  door  in  a  turmoil 
of  unrest,  rising  every  now  and  then  to  open  and 
shut  it  and  let  the  car  rush  by.  To  ease  his  heart 
he  picked  up  a  piece  of  coal  and  began  drawing 
rude  pictures  on  the  canvas  of  the  door  —  pictures 
indecent,  gross,  primal.  He  was  seeking  the  art- 
man's  outlet  —  merely  to  give  his  passion  vent  in 
some  tangible  form. 

It  was  at  eleven  o'clock  that  morning  that  the 
Man  came.  He  came  into  Stiny's  life  very  sud 
denly  and  was  soon  gone.  He  was  never  forgot 
ten.  This  Man  had  been  sent  down  into  mines 
with  a  camera  by  a  committee  in  a  far  city  —  a 
committee  that  was  trying  to  find  out  about  child- 


254  PAY  ENVELOPES 

labor.  But  all  that  Stiny  knew  was  that  on  one 
trip,  the  car,  instead  of  flashing  by,  stopped  short. 

"There's  Stiny  —  he's  one  on  'em,"  said  the 
motorman. 

"All  right  — I'll  get  off!  "  said  the  Man. 

Stiny  stared  at  him  stupidly.  The  man  was 
small,  thin,  with  a  homely  face  and  big  eye-glasses, 
but  his  voice  sounded  good.  In  one  hand  he  held 
a  big  newspaper  camera,  in  the  other  a  heavy  look 
ing  black  valise. 

The  car  went  on,  the  door  was  shut,  and  Stiny 
confronted  the  Man. 

"  Want  to  have  your  picture  taken?  " 

Stiny  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Man,  "  just  stand  up  against 
that  door  as  if  you  were  going  to  open  it." 

Stiny  obeyed.  The  Man's  voice  reminded  him 
of  Miss  Danby  and  made  his  heart  pound.  He 
felt  his  face  flushing.  The  Man  went  through  a 
deal  of  preparation.  He  knelt,  opened  his  valise 
and  took  out  a  shiny  metal  T,  and  on  this  T  he 
fixed  a  long  cartridge.  Then  he  rose  and  focused 
his  camera  very  carefully.  Finally  he  held  the 
camera  with  one  hand  and  the  T  over  his  head 
with  the  other.  Suddenly  there  was  a  white 
blinding  flash,  an  explosion,  a  burst  of  smoke. 
Stiny  gave  a  leap  and  a  loud  cry.  But  the  Man 
was  laughing. 

"  That's  all,"  he  said,  "  won't  hurt  you !  " 

Then  Stiny  laughed  —  loud,  thick,  long.     He 


STINY  BOLINSKY  255 

came  up  and  watched  the  Man  putting  away  his 
things,  snapping  shut  the  valise,  and  closing  the 
camera.  The  Man  faced  him  a  moment  and 
looked  at  him  carefully.  Again  Stiny  felt  his 
heart  pounding.  He  liked  this  Man's  laugh,  his 
voice,  his  kind  eyes. 

He  suddenly  reached  out  a  hand,  almost  touch 
ing  the  Man.  Then  he  drew  it  back  very  much 
ashamed.  The  Man  looked  at  him  more  care 
fully,  and  took  out  a  little  notebook  and  a  pencil. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"  Stiny  Bolinsky." 

"Spell  it!" 

But  Stiny  could  not  spell  it. 

He  could,  however,  give  his  age,  his  wages,  his 
address.  The  Man  took  it  all  down,  and  then 
looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Will  the  car  be  back  soon?  "  he  asked. 

"  Soon,"  said  Stiny. 

They  sat  together  on  the  little  box,  Stiny  very 
carefully  placing  himself  on  the  edge  to  give  the 
Man  plenty  of  room. 

"  Do  you  like  your  work?  "  inquired  the  Man. 

Stiny  gave  a  low  queer  laugh. 

"Pretty  hard,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes  —  no,"  said  Stiny. 

There  was  a  little  silence.  Stiny  began  wetting 
his  lips,  stirring  uneasily,  playing  with  his  hands. 
Here  was  someone  like  Miss  Danby;  someone  who 
understood.  If  Stiny  could  only  open  his  mouth; 


256  PAY  ENVELOPES 

if  he  could  only  tell  the  Man  what  he  felt,  perhaps 
the  Man  could  explain.  The  poor  boy  yearned 
with  all  his  soul  to  question  the  Man,  to  pour  out 
his  heart  to  him,  to  ask  about  that  Other  World. 

But  he  said  nothing.  He  could  not.  He  did 
not  know  how. 

The  Man,  too,  was  perplexed.  He  did  not  like 
being  alone  with  another  human  being,  and  no 
word  said,  no  communication.  But  what  had  they 
in  common,  these  two?  The  Man  looked  at  the 
boy  again.  His  eye  was  caught  by  the  two  badges. 
He  smiled,  and  pointed  at  them. 

"  Who  gave  you  these?  " 

"  Teacher  —  in  Sunday-school  —  Miss  Dan- 
by!  "  The  boy  flushed  hot;  he  had  to  struggle  to 
get  rid  of  the  words;  and  when  he  did,  a  glow  of 
tremendous  pleasure  went  through  him. 

"  Who  is  that?"  asked  the  Man,  pointing  at 
"  Labor's  friend." 

"  That,"  burst  out  Stiny,  "  that  is  Mitch !  " 

"  You  know  Mitch?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  You  bet  —  we  all  know  Mitch!  " 

Then  Stiny  laughed  softly. 

"  And  do  you  know  what  that  cross  means,"  the 
Man  questioned  in  a  low  voice. 

"  No,"  said  Stiny. 

"  You  don't  know  the  words  on  it?  " 

"  No." 

"  Would  you  like  to  know?  " 


STINY  BOLINSKY  257 

All  the  hunger  of  the  boy's  heart  leaped  in  his 
voice:  "  I  want  to  know,"  he  muttered. 

"  It  says,"  the  Man  spoke  slowly,  "  it  says :  Thy 
Kingdom  Come." 

Stiny  looked  disappointed.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  You  don't  know  what  that  means,"  said  the 
Man. 

"  No." 

The  Man  paused  a  moment  and  looked  at  the 
boy.  Then  the  Man's  eyes  became  dim.  He 
spoke  very  tenderly,  very  quietly,  very  slowly.  He 
wanted  the  boy  to  understand. 

"  Stiny,"  he  said,  "  it  means  the  time  when 
things  are  better,  much  better  than  they  are.  It 
means  the  time  when  little  boys  and  little  girls, 
and  boys  like  you,  don't  have  to  work  any  more, 
but  can  go  to  a  good  school,  and  can  play  baseball 
in  the  afternoon,  and  romp  about  in  the  fields  — 
it  means  — " 

He  paused,  for  slowly  a  change  came  over 
Stiny's  face.  His  eyes  grew  large,  his  jaw  hung, 
a  flush  spread  up  his  temples,  he  clasped  his  hands 
together.  He  gazed  at  the  Man  as  if  he  had 
found  his  new  world. 

The  Man  went  on  more  tenderly : 

"  It  means  the  time  when  a  boy  needn't  work 
down  in  a  dark  mine;  it  means  the  time  when  his 
mother  won't  have  to  work  so  hard,  and  doesn't 


258  PAY  ENVELOPES 

labor  until  she  is  tired  and  cross;  when  she  can 
have  a  pretty  home  —  a  little  house  with  curtains 
on  the  windows,  and  lots  of  good  food,  and  nice 
rooms;  when  she  can  stay  as  beautiful  as  she  was 
when  she  was  a  girl.  It  means  the  time  when 
your  father  can  come  home  early  and  read  and 
play  games  with  his  neighbors,  and  see  his  children 
before  they  go  to  bed;  he  will  be  different  then;  he 
won't  be  so  hard,  so  angry,  so  bitter.  It  means 
the  time  when  the  sisters  can  have  pretty  clothes 
and  look  their  prettiest;  when  there  will  be  a  piano 
in  the  house,  and  good  music,  sweet  music  when 
you  are  tired.  It  means  the  time  when  you  can 
read  books,  and  go  out  and  see  the  world  —  the 
big  world  —  the  world  over  the  mountain,  Stiny. 
It  means  the  time  when,  in  the  evening,  men  will 
gather  together  in  clean  places,  and  talk  and  play 
with  one  another  instead  of  getting  drunk." 

Again  the  Man  paused  because  Stiny's  face  was 
so  wonderful.  His  eyes  burned  with  a  strange 
light;  his  mouth  was  open  as  if  he  were  being  fed 
on  the  words;  he  hardly  seemed  to  breathe;  not 
once  did  he  take  his  eyes  from  the  Man's  face. 
This  made  the  Man  look  away  a  moment  to  brush 
something  from  his  eyes.  Then  he  looked  back, 
and  went  on  with  a  break  in  his  voice.  To  Stiny 
it  was  the  most  glorious  voice  ever  heard  —  a  mu 
sic  that  went  lovingly  into  his  heart  and  sang  to 
him  there. 

"  But,  Stiny,  it  means  something  more  —  some- 


STINY  BOLINSKY  259 

thing  more.  Thy  Kingdom  Come  means  the  time 
when  people  are  kind  to  one  another  —  very  kind, 
and  understand  each  other  —  and  help  each  other. 
It  means  the  time  when  there  is  more  love  in  the 
world  —  more  love,"  the  Man  went  on,  and  his 
voice  broke  again,  "  more  love." 

He  stopped.  Stiny  clenched  his  two  fists;  he 
half  rose  out  of  his  seat;  his  mouth  seemed  to  open 
even  wider,  he  seemed  at  the  point  of  bursting. 
Then  suddenly  it  came  with  a  great  noise: 

"  Well  — "  his  voice  rose,  deep-lunged,  splen 
did,  a  great  roar  —  "  That's  chust  what  I  want!  " 

The  Man  rose,  too,  something  thrilling  and 
thrilling  him  from  head  to  foot.  In  that  moment 
he  re-dedicated  himself  to  the  task  of  bringing  on 
the  Kingdom.  And  even  then  there  was  a  bell 
ringing.  Stiny  opened  the  door;  the  car  came; 
the  Man  got  on.  As  it  was  swallowed  in  black 
ness,  the  Man,  looking  back,  saw  in  the  dim  corner 
the  boy,  the  torch  on  his  hat  flaming  smokily,  wav 
ing  his  hand  good-by  —  waving  frantically,  his 
body  dancing  with  his  hand. 

The  Man  had  come;  the  Man  had  gone.  But 
the  great  Dream  of  the  Ages  had  penetrated  the 
belly  of  the  Monster,  for  good  or  evil,  but  forever. 
A  vision  had  come  to  a  passionate  boy,  and  we  hu 
man  beings  are  led  alone  by  our  Visions. 


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